


Babylon the Revelator

by Keeblo



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Canon Divergent AU, Dark!Ford, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Major adult themes, Manipulation, Mental Illness, Stancest - Freeform, Twincest, Violence, read with caution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:55:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 40,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27934225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keeblo/pseuds/Keeblo
Summary: Ford confronts Bill after Fiddleford quits, but Bill is awful convincing when it comes to finishing the portal.Stan is fresh out of prison when he gets a postcard from Ford.It’s been eight years and Stan is a wreck, but Ford is there to fix him. As they navigate their newly rekindled relationship, it becomes more and more difficult to determine who is manipulating who and what the ultimate end goal of their reunion is.
Relationships: Ford Pines/Stan Pines, Stancest
Comments: 17
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> https://open.spotify.com/track/2f2hbFjim051DVx0o8o4rU

Ford confronts Bill immediately after Fiddleford quits the project. The meeting is tumultuous and anger fueled on Ford’s end. He confronts Bill in the Mindscape and Bill tells him the truth of the portal. Of course, Ford tries to immediately leave and shut Bill out, but Bill is not shy about trying to edge Ford back on track for his plans.

“Come on, IQ! Just think, if you finish the portal, life would get so much better for you!” Bill hovers over Ford’s shoulder as he continues walking across the dull gray of his Mindscape. Ford pays Bill no attention and looks for some sort of weakness in this dream to force himself to wake up.

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Bill flits in front of Ford who stops with a jerk. “I should’ve told you sooner where the portal led to, but let’s face it, you’re still going to finish it.” Bill crosses his arms, his eye squinting in a menacing mockery of a smile.

“I will never let you bring the Nightmare realm here!” Ford snaps, side-stepping Bill and stalking off again. Bill turns and watches him, mood darkening until something occurs to him.

“C’mon, Fordsy,” Bill catches up with Ford and circles his head, “what does this dimension even offer you? Pain? Heartbreak and ridicule and they just don’t appreciate your brilliance!” Bill ticks off his points on his fingers, trailing behind Ford who stops a few feet ahead of the demon. Bill nearly crackles with delighted energy. 

“No one cares about you here, Fordsy.” Bill glides forward and rests a hand on one of Ford’s shoulders. “I can give you power and recognition! Together, we can unleash the best party this dimension’s ever seen! And you,” Bill edges around Ford until he can see Ford’s conflicted expression, “you’ll be  _ praised _ . You’ll have access to power and knowledge beyond your belief! There’s nothing here for you anyway, Ford. Let me help you help me and let’s finish that portal, huh?” 

Ford can feel something shifting and heavy exuding from Bill that makes his skin crawl. Despite this, the demon’s words are ensnaring him. It’s true, there’s not much here that’s truly worthwhile to Ford. Sure, there are the mysteries, but he already knows Bill can give him any and all knowledge he needs on that and more. No, there’s nothing here that should keep him from achieving his own greatness, and yet…

Bill follows Ford’s thoughts like a predator does its prey. The muted gray of the landscape around them twitches and then shifts. Then, there’s a small cut out of a wall with a familiar window. Bill follows Ford lazily to the window, looking out of it to another familiar sight. Ford’s breath catches, but Bill just watches with the same satisfaction of a spoiled cat that he always has watching Ford’s deepest memories.

Ford grips the ledge of the window sill as he watches Stan stumble backwards out of their childhood front door. He can hear their father but all he can see is Stan’s frantic and desperate face and then there’s a bag tossed at him and the sound of a door slamming. And then there’s just him and Stan, watching each other. Ford waits for the broken plea, but it doesn’t come. Stan just stands and looks up at Ford, staring with heartbreak in his eyes. Ford’s breaths are short and clipped. Bill hovers on his front, fists propped near his eye and legs kicked back and crossed like a teen devouring juicy gossip.

“Even after 8 years, he still looks up at you like a lost, kicked puppy.” Bill rights himself and moves forward to rest his elbows on the window sill near Ford’s white knuckled fists. “He probably still hates you for this.” Bill knows exactly when Ford tenses and it delights him to no end. “I don’t know that you could ever make it up to him, but hey, what do I know? Oh, right,  _ everything _ .” Bill laughs hard enough to float away from the window, hands curled over his front. When he finally catches himself and floats back over to Ford, his demeanor sinks and his tone sobers.

“If you join me, you could fix all of this.” Bill doesn’t need to see Ford to know the words have landed somewhere dangerous. Bill waves a hand dismissively and Ford’s memory of Stan dissipates. He reconstructs a scene that will cut Ford to the core.

Ford lets out a ragged breath when the window no longer looks out on one of the worst days of Ford’s life, but into his current home. Everything seems normal: his belongings are there, his experiments and his equipment. He sees himself, down in the basement, working on the portal. And then there’s Stan. Stan, who wears the same clothes as his 18-year-old brother, but who looks older. Stan, who looks at Ford with unabashed amazement. Stan, who peppers Ford’s face in kisses and murmured words of praise. Ford looks out onto this scene and his foundations tremor. There’s a doubt that is starting to form in his core, but more than that, a heated desire crackles to life. He wants recognition in the scientific community for his work, sure, but seeing this moment played out in front of him, Ford knows whose recognition he wants, whose recognition has always been the only one to matter.

Bill watches the scene for a moment longer before reworking it. His Ford puppet turns on the portal while his Stan puppet practically melts in wonder.

“He might never forgive you like this, like how you are now,” Bill absently plays out the scene as he speaks to Ford. “He can’t refuse you like that, though. Not only will he be amazed by your genius, but he’ll be amazed by your power.” Bill pauses to let Ford process. Before them, the portal opens and out pour all of the best partiers Bill knows. But he focuses on the show puppet Ford can put on for puppet Stan and the real Ford.

The scene shifts again until puppet Ford and Stan are in the raddest palace Bill can think of (all of the furniture is made from living human flesh!). And there’s puppet Ford, sitting on a throne, commanding and bossing around. Bill makes sure to emphasize all of the science just lying around. Of course, there’s puppet Stan, too, with big ole sappy eyes that scream of being impressed. And they’re both so dapper looking. Bill hears Ford’s breathless murmurs of amazement and knows he has Ford. He just needs to wrap it all in a pretty bow.

Ford’s eyes widen when the extraordinarily accomplished, sauvant Ford pulls Stan in for a kiss unhindered. And there it is. Something crumbles inside of Ford as he watches this facsimile of himself with everything  _ he’s  _ ever wanted, giving Stan what he always deserved. Ford lowers his eyes and catches Bill watching him, one arm bent and resting on the window sill.

“We don’t judge in the Nightmare realm. We’re all freaks in our own way. And with this world as you know it gone,” Bill’s eye nudges back towards the window, “you don’t doubt yourself. Bruiser’s head over heels with you and your power, but he also finally gets what he wants.” Bill let’s the scene fade until the window simply stands between them and the infinite, gray mindscape. Bill shrugs and leans back, examining his fingers boredly.

“Even if you don’t do it for you, think about your brother. He’s never going to make anything of himself and the world’s a cruel, dark place, IQ. You saw that the day he got kicked out. I mean,” Bill sidles up to Ford’s cheek, reducing his size so he can sit on Ford’s shoulder, “he’s probably out there somewhere homeless and starving because of you.” Ford tenses but Bill continues as if he isn’t clawing Ford apart with guilt. “He’s probably waiting out everyday in the cold, hoping and waiting for the day his big brother will take him back and let him worship you.” 

Ford stiffens and swats Bill away. He turns away from the window and starts walking again, but it’s directionless and idle. Bill glides along beside Ford languidly.

“Stanley would never worship me.” Ford rolls his eyes and stuffs his hands into his pockets, much too aware of his extra fingers. “He probably hates me. And he’s got too big of an ego to worship me. We’re practically sworn foes.” Ford’s pace quickens as he mulls it over, trying to remember the dynamic he and Stanley had once had. “It was always him versus me and who could be the best, the strongest, the most recognized.” Ford’s eyebrows knit as he recalls their sibling rivalry. Bill, sensing Ford departing from the brilliantly yellow path he  _ should  _ be following, gets in front of Ford and glides backwards, trying to catch Ford’s attention.

“Oh  _ please, _ Fordsy, Bruiser practically worshipped the ground you walked on!” Bill ditches the window thing Ford had going on to just dredge up memories and line them up on either side of Ford’s path. Ford slows as he passes them. Bill shows him the times Stan had praised his extra fingers, times when Stan’s eyes had lit up when he impressed Ford, all of the reassurances and kisses and whispered ‘I love you’s as they grew up. He reminds Ford of Stanley bringing home his car for the first time and the breath of relief when Ford had also been smitten with it. He reminds Ford of their father’s disapproving gaze and how, even on the days it seemed their father leeched the soul right out of his rambunctious brother, Stan would light up even if it was just to make Ford smile.

Ford stops, surrounded by memories and feeling full to the brim with  _ so much _ . He never noticed so many things about Stanley, about how much he tried to win Ford’s approval. And that thing, that thing that had  _ snapped _ in Ford is flooded with a possessive hunger. He studies these memories and he  _ knows _ that he is too good for this world. He knows that it does not deserve his forgiveness for the pain it caused him. And worse, it doesn’t deserve forgiveness for what it’s done to Stan. Ford deserves adoration and power for his gifts. He deserves it and he deserves his brother back with him and looking up to him. He can’t and doesn’t want to fathom what Stan has been doing in the years since he was disowned, but Ford can right those wrongs. In fact, he’s the only one who can. No one else can soothe Stan the way that he can, and no one has that right.

Ford redirects his attention to Bill and feels an eternal gratitude blossom in his chest. He can do this. He  _ has  _ to do this. For him. For Stan.

Bill’s eye grows wide at the hand Ford offers.

“I’ll keep working on the portal,” Ford says. There’s a promise in his words that makes Bill’s incorporeal form shudder with delight. “You just have to promise me that Stan and I get to join you.” If Bill had a mouth, it would surely be salivating. Bill brings a contemplative hand to his eye, as if considering. Instead of doubt or uncertainty at Bill’s pause, Ford’s jaw sets and he looks ready to strangle Bill should he refuse.  _ Oh _ , this will be  _ so _ fun. 

Bill breaks the tense silence with a boisterous laugh and shakes Ford’s hand with a fiery grip.

“You got it, IQ! You won’t regret this!” Bill’s eye upturns as they shake. There’s something raw and dark in the way Ford looks at Bill as they pull apart. Bill snaps Ford awake and out of the Mindscape. In the wake of their new deal, the gray tone of Ford’s Mindscape withers and darkens. Bill has finally managed to catapult the worst of Ford to the forefront. To think, all it took was revealing his true intentions to the dimwitted genius! Bill crackles, form flickering from yellow to red. Finally, he can start getting ready for the sickest party to ever party!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find my GF blog at mysterykeebs.tumblr.com


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> https://open.spotify.com/track/5srKMwXoeyrRnyTnNbpgIW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw: descriptions of ED symptoms/body checking, feeding someone with an ED something they wouldn't eat without them knowing

Stan slumps into the driver’s seat of the Stanmobile. The day has been long and unbearably hot. Of course, he really can’t expect anything different for Mexico, even in November. Still, his body aches and he hasn’t been able to shake the headache pulsing behind his eyes for days. He lowers his seat back a ways with a slight jerk, an immediate relief to his aching body. The photo of him and Ford seems to stare him back from the visor. He’s spent so much time over the years just staring at that photo, reliving every mistake he’s made since high school.

With a sigh, Stan scrubs a hand over his face and turns his attention to the postcard he had been given earlier in the day. He hasn’t had a chance to look at it considering he’s been out all day with Rico’s goons. Hell, he’s confused how he even  _ got _ a postcard considering he doesn’t know anyone who would send him one, let alone know where to find him after so many years bouncing around the States and then Europe and South America.

He had tossed the card onto the passenger’s seat when he first got it this morning and he reaches out to pick it up now. A picturesque snapshot of nature overlayed with big, bright letters that spell ‘Gravity Falls’ greets him. He grunts. He’s never heard of any place called Gravity Falls before. Turning over the card, Stan reads the perfect script. Familiar script asking him to come help. And then there it is: Stanford Pines. The name is signed in equally perfect letters just like Stan remembers. 

Stan lets out a breath, free hand moving to scrub over his jaw, stubble prickly against his palm. He reads the card again and then twice more just to be sure. His eyes start to itch and then there are tears pricking at them, threatening to finally release the dam of emotions he’s kept bottled for years. 

“Jesus…” Stan rests the hand holding the postcard to his thigh as he stares out of his windshield to the grubby streets of some tiny Mexican town on his way back up north. His thumb rubs over the face of the card, over the ridges and dips of the words scrawled into it. This is it. He’s been waiting for Ford to contact him, to let him back into his life for nearly a decade. But now that it’s here, heavy between his fingers, Stan can barely swallow back the heavy knot of anxiety behind his ribs. Sure, it’s been nearly ten years, but the Pines’ twins had had such an extraordinarily tumultuous split that Stan can’t even imagine what it would be like to actually be in front of his brother again. How much has he changed? Would Ford even recognize him like this? Or worse, would Ford just turn him out into the wind again? 

Stan squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a shaky breath. He can’t imagine that Ford has forgiven him. He took Ford’s one chance at his dreams. Hell, if it had been the other way around, he can’t say he wouldn’t still hold a grudge ten years later. But it isn’t that way, and he has been paying the price for his stupidity since. 

With another heavy sigh, Stan opens his eyes and reads the postcard again. He swallows and thinks of his few belongings stuffed into the same duffel he had been kicked out with. He thinks of the past year spent in a Colombian prison and his first moments of freedom being thrust right back into the fray of Rico’s empire. Stan looks at the postcard and the offer to be with his brother again. 

Stan doesn’t give a single glance back as he starts the long trek back to the States. Back to Ford.

It’s probably stupid, but Stan doesn’t say anything for longer than he probably should. He laughs awkwardly and scratches the back of his head, trying to regain himself. The urge to smother his brother in affection is entirely overwhelming for a number of reasons.

“Wow, uh...you, you look good.” Stan coughs and tries not to seem as shaken by his brother as he’s feeling. And it’s true, Ford _does_ look good. His jaw is much more defined and sharper than when Stan last saw him, his hair thick and starting to curl from the length. Ford might still dress like a dork, but he’s undeniably handsome and just as breathtaking to Stan as he had always been. Ford, for his part, just cocks an eyebrow at Stan, one hand still on the knob of the door. 

Oh Jesus. This is exactly what Stan _didn’t_ want to do when he finally made it to Gravity Falls. He had spent the two day’s journey trying to perfect their reunion in his head. Of course, he had imagined their meeting a little more...reunited lovers vibes than he really had any right believing it would be, but still, this is just...embarrassing. Stan rubs an arm through his jacket and offers a half smile. 

“It’s good to see you, Stanley. Why don’t you come in?” Ford’s voice is even and polite, but it sends immediate pangs throughout Stan’s chest. He sounds so different, so grown up. Stan shuffles past Ford and is grateful for the heat of the house in the freezing Oregon cold. Being in South America for a year did not do him any favors in preparing for the bone deep chill of the pacific northwest. 

Ford shuts the door with a click behind Stan and then turns back towards him.

“You can leave your bag on the stairs for the moment.” Ford inclines his chin towards the stairs to Stan’s right. “I imagine you’re probably tired from your trip. Care for a cup of coffee?” Stan sets his bag down as Ford turns and heads down the short hall to Stan’s left and enters what appears to be a kitchen. Stan follows suit and clears his throat.

“Uh, sure, I could go for some coffee.” Upon entering the kitchen, Stan is taken aback with how bare it is. There’s a small table by a set of windows across the room, but other than that, there’s nothing other than standard kitchen appliances in the room. Ford pulls two mugs from a cabinet over the sink while Stan makes his way to the table to sit.

The table is covered in papers scattered across its surface. Stan slides one towards himself and looks at it with vague disinterest. It might as well be in a different language with all of the science-y mumbo jumbo on it.

“So, how was the drive?” Stan starts at Ford’s question. Ford sits a cup of dark coffee in front of Stan without acknowledging Stan’s reaction. Stan reaches for the mug and relaxes as the heat from it seeps into his stiff hands. 

“Oh, that, it was pretty uneventful.” Stan shrugs and looks at his brother who compiles the scattered papers before setting them to the side. Ford hums in acknowledgement before turning his gaze back to Stan.

“You arrived much quicker than I was expecting considering you were in Mexico.” Ford brings his mug to his lips and sips at his coffee. His glasses fog for just a moment and Stan is shot straight back to high school when he and Ford would sneak out to buy hot chocolate at the diner down the street during winter break.

“The drive goes by pretty fast when you disregard the speed limit.” Stan shrugs again and takes a sip of his own coffee. He also nearly drove the entire trip straight, only stopping when he absolutely couldn’t drive anymore. But by that point he would just keep driving after a thirty-minute nap pulled off on the side of the road.

Despite not having eaten in days, Stan can already tell that his stomach has no interest in him ingesting the drink. Ford snorts, one side of his lips twitching up at the corner. At that, Stan can feel his face heating up. It’s been so long since he’s made Ford smile. His heart twists at the thought.

“I see you’ve not changed much.” Ford settles back into his chair, one arm crossed while the other holds his cup of coffee near his mouth. Stan swallows thickly. Everything is so warm and surreal, and Stan really can’t figure out how he’s supposed to act around his twin after so long. For Christ’s sake, it’s been nearly ten years and Ford is just sitting there in a turtleneck with an easy air about him as if he hadn’t been the most awkward, nervous person Stan had ever known while they grew up. Stan thinks he might be choking or forgetting how to breathe because Ford is just _perfect_ and it’s really starting to sink in that it’s been almost ten years since he’s seen him. It’s been nearly ten years since Stan fucked everything up and Ford had left him to pick up the pieces of his mistakes alone.

“You’ve changed a lot, Sixer…” Stan doesn’t mean to murmur the words into his coffee so guiltily, but he does, and he immediately wants to smack himself for it. Ford’s easy expression hardens a fraction, but he doesn’t stop watching Stan. 

“That’s what happens when you grow up, Stanley.” Ford drinks his coffee and seems so unperturbed that Stan feels like he’s getting whiplash from his own inner emotional hurricane. Stan mumbles out an affirming sound in response before clearing his throat.

“So, uh, what exactly did you need help with?” Stan fiddles with the handle of his mug. Ford waves a dismissive hand through the air and turns his attention towards the windows.

“We can discuss that later. You should probably rest up first.” Ford uncrosses his arm and sets his mug on the table. Ford stands and Stan follows suit, leaving his full mug of coffee on the table. Ford leads them back towards the door that Stan had come in. He starts up the stairs, so Stan grabs his duffel and follows. When they reach the second floor, Ford leads them to a room and opens the door. Stan stops in the doorway and watches as Ford walks over to a bed tucked into a far corner of the room. Ford tosses things off of the bed haphazardly while Stan takes a moment to take in the room.

There’s a small bathroom off to the left and a long couch to the right beneath a stained-glass window. There’s a sort of organized chaos to the room that feels so at home to Stan. It reminds him of being a kid, except, he thinks with a pang, that this room is Ford’s room, not _their_ room. For all of the familiarity, there’s no mess from Stan in this room, just the disorganization of a man who lives in one giant workspace.

“You can sleep here for now. I don’t spend much time up here anyway, so this will do until I can set you up with a more permanent space.” Ford heads back towards Stan who is still just staring from the doorway. Ford raises an eyebrow at Stan, but he’s just frozen there.

“A... permanent space…?” Stan’s question is met with Ford crossing his arms behind his back with a shrug.

“I’ve got work to get back to, Stanley. Feel free to settle. If you need me, I’ll be around. We can discuss logistics later, but for now you need rest and I need to get a few things in order.” Ford claps Stan on the shoulder as he slips past him. Stan turns his head to watch Ford disappear downstairs before returning to the room in front of him. With a sigh, he steps into the room.

He shrugs his duffel onto the couch and takes a few minutes to do a lap of the room, touching nearly everything he sees. When he makes it back around to Ford’s bed, he just stares at it. Ford had switched on the bedside lamp when he had first entered the room, leaving it to now bathe the bed in a soft yellow light. Stan turns and sits on the bed, gauging it. It’s firm, but giving, sinking in some from his weight. The sheets are beige and wrinkled underneath numerous heavy layers of blankets. Stan almost laughs because it seems Ford is still prone to generating exactly no heat. That certainly explains the turtleneck and jacket Ford has on. He reaches a hand out and presses his palm to one of the pillows. It’s soft and heavy in a pillowcase the same beige as the sheets. 

Stan unties and kicks off his shoes before scooting back onto the bed. He turns and slides beneath the layers of blankets and is immediately swept up into Ford’s scent. Lying back, he’s surrounded by it. There’s something heavier to the scent than when they were kids, muskier, but it’s still recognizably Stanford’s smell. Stan stares up at the ceiling and is caught in a wave of disbelief. He feels unreal, lying in Ford’s bed with the prospect of having a ‘permanent space’ in his brother’s home. Hell, maybe in his brother’s life. He would cry if he weren’t so damn stubborn.

God, it’s been so long since he’s been in a real bed in an actual home. Stan lets out a world-weary sigh and closes his eyes, tries to immortalize the moment into his very soul. He’s so exhausted. Tired of running and struggling to survive. He’s tired of the guilt and the lies and the loneliness. He probably would have crumbled away if he and Ford had been estranged just a few years longer. And perhaps they still are since they haven’t actually talked about what happened, but they’re here in this house _together_ and that is enough to keep him from crumbling for now. 

It’s so hard to will his eyes back open, but Stan manages just long enough to switch the lamp off. The darkness in Ford’s room is deep but comforting. He can hear the quiet sounds of snow blowing against the side of the house and the wind in the trees. It’s a perfect combination of busy silence that has Stan passing out in minutes.

Stan never really gets an exact answer from Ford about what he needs Stan’s help with. Stan, not wanting to inadvertently push Ford away, doesn’t pry for further explanation. With a grunt, Stan lowers a large, metal box to the ground where Ford had told him to put it. When it’s safely as flush as it can be against the uneven dirt floor, Stan straightens and wipes the back of a hand across his forehead. 

Today makes the fourth day that Stan has been in Gravity Falls. He’s been working down in some weird sort of underground basement lab thing with Ford for three. Ford had simply led Stan to the basement through some creepy, out of sight elevator and started telling Stan to carry things into the cavernous room housing, as far as Stan has gathered, some sort of portal. Stan won’t lie, despite his excitement at being with his brother for the foreseeable future, listening to Stanford rattle on and on about the mechanics of the portal had not been pleasant, so he’s not really sure what exactly the doomsday looking hunk of junk is supposed to do. Still, Stan glances back towards the small room connecting to this one and watches as Ford works relentlessly at a computer. 

It would be a bummer that they’ve interacted so little if Stan weren’t so glad that his brother’s absorption in his work meant that Stan doesn’t have to address the plethora of issues that is currently plaguing him. Such as not eating and his constant paranoia that he’s being watched or that he’s dreaming.

Stan frowns and rolls his shoulders. His body is sore, but it’s familiar. His headache hasn’t dissipated yet and it makes lugging around heavy portal bits that much more taxing. At least he’s doing something, he supposes. 

Wiping his forehead against the rolled-up sleeve of his tee shirt, Stan turns and kneels to examine the box he’s just set down. Ford said that this box is supposed to connect to a line of wires Stan had recently run along the right wall of the portal room. He sniffs and stares at the different ports and holes on the box that he has to try to assemble properly. He doesn’t want to admit it, but between Ford’s way-over-Stan’s-head explanations and the mental fog he’s been toting around for years, he really isn’t sure what is supposed to go where. Sure, he can work on cars, but he’s no certified mechanic and he sure as hell isn’t an electrician.

He knows he could probably ask Ford to explain the set up to him again, but something about that rubs Stan the wrong way. He’s finally back with his brother! The last thing he wants to do is prove himself worthless yet again. So, he sets his brow and gets to work hooking up the machine with the desperate hope that Ford’s explanation stuck somewhere in his head.

Stan finishes jerry-rigging the machine after about an hour. He anchors the machine down and moves on to securing any loose bolts that Ford had forgotten to tighten earlier. It’s a couple of hours after that that Ford leaves his position in front of the computers to wander into the portal room.

Stan isn’t really paying attention when Ford walks into the room. He’s on his back under one side of the portal trying to figure out how Ford had managed to leave half of the bolts holding two panels of the portal together when he hears Ford’s voice from across the room.

“Stanley, this is all wrong. It looks like a child did this. Did you even listen to my instructions?” When Stan manages to get up and spot Ford, he can see that his brother is still talking, yanking out groups of wires from the metal box. Stan takes a few hesitant steps forward, a shaky hand running through his hair instinctively.

Ford stands, turning to face him. Ford pinches the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses and then sighs in exasperation.

“Why didn’t you listen when I told you how to do this? It’s not that hard, Stanley. You just need to listen to instructions.” Ford lowers his hand and turns back towards the box haphazardly taken apart. “This is serious, Stan. We can’t afford to do things  _ your  _ way here.”

Stan doesn’t want to cry. Not in general, but sure as hell not in front of Ford. Yet, his chest twists until he’s not sure if he’s going to break down from fear or guilt. It’s not like he isn’t aware that he’s leagues beneath his brother, but the way that Ford looks, as if he shouldn’t have expected anything different. Stan starts breathing hard and his head swims from his constant headache and fatigue. He digs his fingers around the hem of his shirt, clenching the material in his fists, trying to feel anything other than the buzzing, anxious cold that pulses through him. Ford notices Stan’s heavy breathing and anxious fidgeting and turns, annoyance still visible on his features, but an eyebrow raised in question.

“Of course not, Stanford. I get it, I fucked up your dreams and had ten years to outgrow my bullshit, but I’m still a good-for-nothing knucklehead fucking your stuff up!” Stan wants to tear his own face with his fingernails just so he doesn’t have to look at Ford’s pitying expression. He reaches up to his hair, pulls hard enough that his scalp sears in pain, body shaking. “I thought I could just fix everything by being useful to you, but I can’t even do that! God, I’m so fucking stupid that I still think I’m worth your time…” Stan huffs out a shaky laugh, lowering his hands to cover his damp eyes.

“Stanley, is this really a necessary response-”

“No, Ford, of course not. I’m being stupid and irrational and…and acting like a child.” Stan blows out a heavy breath, wipes his eyes of tears. “You needed some meathead to help you and you had the kindness to give me the opportunity to start to make up for the past.” Stan breathes out a sigh and crosses his arms over his chest. “I couldn’t even do  _ that  _ right… It’s been a decade and all I’ve done is prove Pops right, y’know? I’m worthless and I’m not going to make anything of myself. But you already knew that, right, Stanford? That’s why you wanted me to work with you? Your little brother couldn’t make it on his own, so you had to fix everything like you always do. Too damn nice that you’re still looking after your deadbeat brother.”

Stan can feel that flame in him again, the flame that had licked at him when Ford said he would take the chance to go to West Coast Tech in high school, the same flame that had nearly consumed him when Ford had turned his back on him the day he got kicked out. Stan meets Ford’s exasperated expression with his own angry one.

“I thought we would work things out, Sixer! I thought we’d talk things out and we could-” Stan wants to  _ scream _ because he’s so stupid! “I thought we could be brothers again. But you’ve been acting like nothing even happened! You won’t tell me why you’re letting me be here after so long and-and I’m just not  _ you _ , Ford, okay?” Stan has to set his jaw to try and keep his trembling from reaching his voice. “I thought we would fix things, but this is just like back at home. Don’t talk about it and pretend like it never happened, right? Like you getting bullied or Pops beating our asses for years, right? We won’t talk about Stan ruining everything and how he can make it up to the person that means most to him because…” a single tear falls hot from the outside corner of Stan’s eye and then another and another. “I can’t fix this, can I, Ford?” As soon as the words leave him, Stan can feel his anger smoldering out like the end of a match. His shoulders slump and he feels so small.

“I think I should just go.” The words are pathetic, and Stan knows it. Ford looks at him like he’s a child after throwing a temper tantrum and Stan can’t help it, he’s so  _ pissed  _ that Ford has to give up his time like this for such a worthless waste-of-space like himself. Stan doesn’t deserve Ford’s forgiveness. It was stupid to ever think that he did.

Stan pushes past Ford and stalks to the elevator. He waits until the doors are closed and he’s moving up to punch one of the walls. The elevator shakes with the attack and Stan lets out a series of frustrated curses while tears flow unbidden down his cheeks. When the elevator shutters to a stop on the ground floor, Stan straightens and takes the stairs two at a time. He needs a fucking cigarette.

Ford watches Stan rush away with a mixture of confusion and anger. He doesn’t understand why Stan is so upset and making such a scene. Ford  _ told _ him how to wire the amplification system in great detail. If the catastrophe of wiring Stan had done wasn’t proof enough that Stan hadn’t listened, Ford isn’t sure what would be. 

He hears the elevator open and shut before it groans up towards the ground floor of his home. He sighs and rubs his eyes tiredly. And to think that he and Stan had been quite amicable considering the tense circumstances preceding their reunion.

“Wow, that went terribly!” 

Ford lowers his fingers from his eyes and turns an exhausted expression towards Bill.

“You don’t say…” Ford leans back against the amplifier. “I don’t understand what all of that was about. Stanley wired this entire box wrong.” Ford crosses his arms over his chest, fingers scratching over the material of his sleeves absently. Bill rolls his eye and crosses his arms.

“Look, I love your complete inability to consider other’s feelings, but that was torture to watch. And not the fun kind!” Bill cackles loud enough to echo in the large space. Ford stares at him in gruff confusion until Bill heaves a sigh and glides forward to smack Ford on the forehead. “Bruiser’s not a genius, Stanford!” Bill stares Ford down, close enough that Ford is unnerved by the void of Bill’s pupil.

“Of course not. He never has been.” Bill waves a hand for Ford to continue but Ford simply meets him with a look of confusion.

“Jeesh, Fordsy, even  _ my  _ feelings are being hurt by your unawareness.” Bill edges back enough that Ford can watch him without straining backwards. “And I thought you wanted ole Stanny boy to forgive you? Could’ve fooled me!”

Ford rolls his eyes before he finds himself dropping his gaze to the ground to look at the wires connected to the amplifier. Half of them are incorrectly configured into the box. The other half are strewn across the floor from where he had taken them out in exasperation. He looks at the mess and can see where every wire should go and exactly what purpose they play.

“Everything has been, for the most part, fine since he got here. Was I not clear enough that I wanted him here with me by letting him stay here and help me with my research? Isn’t that enough?” Ford turns his gaze back to Bill who rubs a hand underneath his eye as if in contemplation.

“Listen, IQ, your brother is about as fragile as I am ancient, and it doesn’t take a genius to see that poor little Stanley just wants to kiss and make out with his big brother.” Ford frowns.

“Do you mean ‘kiss and make up’?”

“I said what I said, Sixer.” Bill shrugs nonchalant. Ford’s frown deepens.

“Don’t call me that.” Bill’s eye widens comically and then narrows as he chuckles.

“What? Don’t want me stealing your special nickname?” Bill’s eye opens large, covering nearly the entire expanse of his front. Ford flinches when Stan’s voice comes from Bill along with flashes of images, each of Stan using that nickname. Ford’s face flushes as his anger flares.

“Enough, Bill!” Stan’s voice stops, but an image of him remains frozen on Bill’s body.

“You’re breaking him, Stanford.” Bill’s voice is harsh after the onslaught of Stan’s. Ford brings his gaze up from the image of Stan, angry from just a few minutes earlier, to Bill’s still wide eye. Ford swallows, is about to ask what Bill means, but as usual, Bill already knows.

“Stan can’t help you who can’t help us who can’t help me if you break him up too much. Remember, he can’t forgive you until you can provide for him. And,” Bill floats closer, the image of Stan migrating until Stan’s face is aligned perfectly with Bill’s eye over one of his own, “he needs you to fix him. He needs you to make him  _ better _ .” The image flickers and then Ford can see Stan outside on the porch, a cigarette between his lips. A quiet breath escapes from between his own lips.

“He…I could never make him better. He’s much too stubborn and… I like him how he is. He’s insufferable sometimes, but there are a lot of things about Stan that I admire, have always admired.” Ford swallows but considers the thought. Bill backs off, body returning to its flat yellow.

“But just think, IQ, if you stroke him just right, you could get rid of all of the insufferable and keep only the parts you like.” Bill’s eye upturns on the edge of too much. Ford grimaces at the phrasing. “You stare in a mirror long enough, you can create a new image. You just might need to break it a few times to get it to comply.” Ford lets the thought mull in his head for a moment.

Bill is right about the instability of Stan’s current emotional state. Ford recalls, completely unintentionally, their high school prom when Stan had poured punch on himself just to make Ford feel better. He remembers on their drive back home that night when Stan had said he did as much because he would always be there to follow and match Ford at his worst and that he would strive to match Ford’s best, too. Then it dawns on him: he just needs to remind Stan of his promise and force him to see that this is the best he said he would be there for.

“Yes…I think I see now. Stan needs me to help him realize that if I’m doing well, so is he.” Ford stands, pushing up off of the amplifier. Bill glances to the side and then drags out a long ‘yeah’.

“You know what? Sure, that works, too. My idea was better, but sure, we can go with yours.” Bill rolls his eye, but Ford is already heading out of the room.

“Thanks for the help, Bill! You always know how to get me past a roadblock!”

“Yeah, yeah! Don’t forget, flattery and gifts will get you everywhere!” Ford tosses an acknowledging sound behind him as he leaves the room and rounds his desk to head to the elevator, leaving Bill to flicker and then disappear.

Smoking and freezing temperatures do not go together very well, Stan decides very quickly. It’s still snowing outside, but the porch keeps most of it at bay. Stan leans heavily onto his forearms against the railing of the porch as he breathes in a long drag of his cigarette. His hand is still shaking some when he pulls the cigarette from between his lips, but thankfully the rest of him has chilled out for the most part. His head still throbs, and his eyes are puffy and itch like hell, though.

Stan stays outside, chain smoking cigarette after cigarette until his tongue is tacky with the sour taste of nicotine and he can’t feel his feet or his fingers or damn near every other part of him. He’s on cigarette five or six when he hears the porch door open and the soft sound of Ford’s boots coming towards him. He doesn’t say anything when Ford slides something over his shoulders. From how long it is, Stan figures that it’s one of Ford’s dorky, nerd coats.

Ford mimics Stan’s posture and rests his forearms on the railing. For a few moments, there’s just the sound of the wind and a heavy silence between the two of them. Then Ford shifts and Stan is acutely aware that it’s Ford’s ‘I want to say something, but I have zero social skills’ shuffle. He nearly says something just to get Ford to stop shifting when Ford beats him to it.

“Look, Stanley, I’m sorry about the amplifier. It’s been so long that I guess I forgot you aren’t my clone.” Stan lets out a breath of smoke and lets his head dip below his shoulders. “But that’s okay. Because, if I remember correctly, someone once told me that they would match me at my worst and also at my best.” Stan can feel Ford’s eyes on him without having to turn his head. He remembers with a pang the night of their prom and how raw he had felt admitting that he would always be there to take some of the harsh gaze of the world from Stanford if he needed.

“What a good job I did of that.” Stan pulls another drag of his cigarette, breathing smoke out from his nose as he turns to meet Ford’s blue eyes. Ford rests a hand on Stan’s forearm and squeezes. Stan swallows thickly, his forehead wrinkling when his expression twists slightly.

“Who cares? You’re here with me now and you promised me you would be there at my best. Stanley, I am close to completing my most important scientific contribution.” Stan watches helplessly as Ford’s expression brightens. “This will change the world and then it will just be you and me. But you need to be on board with me. We can do this together, you just need to let me lead the way and show you what to do. I can make everything better.” Ford’s fingers tighten as he leans in closer, his eyes dark and suggestive in a way Stan has never seen. “I can make it all  _ perfect _ .”

The heat of the cigarette stings the back of Stan’s fingers enough that he can manage to pull his gaze from Ford’s. Breathing out shakily, Stan drops his cigarette into the snow, eyes moving to stare at Ford’s hand on his forearm.

“I dunno, Stanford. I’ll probably just keep fucking things up.” Stan rests his hand over Ford’s, gives it a squeeze and then shakes his arm free to cross over his chest.

“Stanley,” Ford says, straightening as well. Stan tries to sidestep Ford, mumbling about how he should leave. He doesn’t expect Ford’s grip to be so tight when he grabs Stan’s elbow.

“Sixer, please, let me-” The unexpected hug Ford pulls him into is enough to make him shut up. Ford holds the back of Stan’s neck firmly with one hand while the other presses into Stan’s spine.

“No, Stanley. You’re staying here with me. You promised me. I’m not letting you walk out again. Your place is here, by my side.” Stan’s breath catches and then all at once the tears are back. He gets one weak urge to push away that falls to the side easily when he hugs Ford back and gets a hard squeeze in return. He knows he should be embarrassed by how hard he cries into Ford’s shoulder, but he can’t hold onto it over how nice it feels to melt into Ford’s touch.

Stan is still sniffling when Ford turns his head, lips brushing against Stan’s ear.

“You’re not going to leave. You promised, right?” Stan nods quickly. Ford hums an approving sound and strokes the curling hairs at Stan’s nape. “You’re going to listen better?” Stan nods again with a wet, snotty sigh. Ford hums again. “That makes me so happy to hear, Stanley. It’s just us, now. I’ll make sure you get what you deserve, but you have to listen and let me help you be better.” Stan nods again absently. With his nose stuffy and impossible to breathe through, he breathes hot air onto Ford’s shoulder through his mouth. Ford is surprisingly warm, and it lulls Stan despite his own freezing limbs.

“Can you go inside now?” Ford asks just behind Stan’s ear. Stan takes a moment to respond in an attempt to prolong the hug just a little longer.

“Yeah, that sounds good.” Stan pulls away when Ford does before scrubbing his face with the inside of his tee shirt. Ford heads in first and waits until Stan steps inside to shut the porch door. Stan shivers from how warm the house is as he shrugs Ford’s coat off to hang up.

“Can I make you dinner?” Ford’s expression is easy, like he asks Stan this everyday. Stan’s heart skitters in his chest.

“Oh, uh, sure. I didn’t know you knew how to cook?” Jesus, Stan very obviously sounds like he’s been crying. He scratches the back of his hand absently while Ford quirks an eyebrow and looks almost offended.

“Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I? Cooking is just science, Stanley.” Ford rolls his eyes then waves a hand dismissively before meeting Stan’s gaze again. “You didn’t answer my question. Can I cook for you tonight? I’m sure we both could use it considering I don’t think we’ve eaten one good meal between us in days.” Stan has to hide the growing pit in his stomach with an overly enthusiastic chuckle.

“If you’re cooking, I guess I’ve gotta try it!” Stan trails off with more uncomfortable laughter then clears his throat. Ford stares at him, clearly confused by his odd behavior. Just as quickly, however, he shrugs and reaches out to hold the side of Stan’s face in his hand.

“How about you clean up and get into something a little bit warmer while I prepare something.” Ford’s thumb slides over his freezing, flushed cheek. He’s so nervous and anxious about how fast things have flipped, terrified that all of this isn’t real, but the warm point of contact between him and Ford is so reassuring. He nods and Ford smiles.

“Good. There’s another bathroom just down the hall from my room that has a shower in it. You can borrow some of my clothes for the evening.” Ford draws his hand back and Stan has to fight himself not to reach out for it. “I imagine you didn’t have much use for such warm clothing while in Mexico.” Stan manages another small nod. He hadn’t had much use for  _ any _ clothing for the past year while in prison. Ford nods and smiles again.

“Right. Well, you can borrow some of my clothes. It will be like when we were kids.” Something crosses over Ford’s features that Stan can’t quite place, but it makes his stomach knot up. “I’ll see you in a bit for dinner.” Ford gives him a very obvious once over and then walks away towards the kitchen. He heads upstairs, red up to his ears from something much more embarrassing than the cold.

He wanders into the bathroom first. The thought of having to go through Ford’s clothing to try and find something to fit into makes his skin crawl, so he wanders down the hall until he finds the bathroom.

The bathroom is nearly identical to the one downstairs. He shuffles into the room and closes the door behind himself. Despite the architectural similarities between this bathroom and the one downstairs, this bathroom has an entirely different feel to it. He doesn’t really ever see Ford upstairs. Hell,  _ he _ is only ever up here to sleep. But this bathroom is like a museum to Ford’s humanness. There’s a toothbrush in a cup by the sink, a brush full of dark brown hair sitting on the counter, and a towel hanging next to the bathtub. With a pang, Stan realizes that something about the bathroom is oddly familiar. He does a quick once over everything again before it hits him.

There’s a missing spot next to all of Ford’s things. Only the left side of the sink is occupied and there’s an extra towel hook on the wall next to where Ford’s towel hangs. His forehead creases and he reaches to open the mirrored cabinet over the sink. His heart drops when the top shelves of the cabinet are empty. Shutting the cabinet door, he grips the edge of the counter and leans heavily into it. Jesus, now that he’s seen it, he knows the bathroom is set up to imitate their childhood bathroom with all of Stan’s spots standing vacant. He almost smiles at the thought until another rushes in seething and jealous. 

What if the empty spots are for someone else? What if it’s just habit and Ford never thought that Stan would fill in those gaps. It makes sense, he thinks with a laugh. Ford hadn’t told him about this bathroom, hadn’t offered him the option to fit back into those empty spaces. Sure, he hasn’t seen anyone else even come out to Ford’s home, nor has he seen Ford do anything other than work on his research, but that doesn’t stop the nagging, sharp bite of jealousy from flaring up from behind his ribs. 

Stan huffs and angrily moves to grab a towel and washcloth from the cabinet next to the toilet. As he moves to place the towel onto the empty towel hook, he catches his reflection in the mirror. His arms are half up, and he’s turned at an angle. The result is so unsettling that he drops everything in his hands. 

He takes a step back to better see himself and is immediately filled with shame and disgust. There’s a hollowness to his features and yet he looks so  _ round _ . His face is evidently swollen and marred with dark circles. He almost convinces himself that he looks smaller underneath his dirty, baggy tee shirt until he slides it up to reveal all of his sagging, deflated skin. He looks like a child trying to fit into their parent’s clothing. He used to be so much but now he’s just a joke of a man wearing his past self’s skin like an ill-fitting suit.

He has to close his eyes and blindly yank the cabinet housing the mirror open just to keep from losing himself and punching his reflection to bits. He sucks in a breath through his teeth and turns away from the open cabinet to pick up his towel and discarded washcloth. He hangs the towel and starts the shower, tossing the washcloth onto the wire shelf hanging from the shower nozzle.

He strips while the shower warms, trying his best not to look at his naked body in the process. When the water is steaming, He steps into the bathtub and ducks under the spray of water. A chill runs through him strong enough that he makes a chittering sound. The heat of the water is so god damn nice against his cold skin that he wants to melt into it and forget himself. It doesn’t help that it’s nearly December in Oregon. 

He has been so much colder than he’s used to. The usual cold that seems to permeate his bones is constantly supplemented by the November chill even when he’s inside. He doesn’t expect any different, really. He  _ knows _ why he’s always cold. It’s the same reason he has constant headaches and thinks his heart is going to spontaneously stop beating most of the time.

He turns to grab his washcloth. He stares at the pale blue rag as water runs down his face in streams, collecting and spilling off of his eyelashes, lips, and nose. He uses a little of Ford’s fancy, deep scented body wash and keeps his eyes closed as he scrubs his body. 

He’s done this too many times to count, just scrubbing himself over and over until he can’t feel anything but the sting of the water on his raw skin. It forces him to think about something other than his disgusting, naked body until he rinses himself and steps out of the shower dripping.

The temporary heat of the shower dissipates as soon as the water is off and he pulls the shower curtain to the side, leaving him shivering and dripping water onto the floor. He quickly rubs as much water from his hair with the towel before wrapping himself in it as best as he can. It feels like his bones are made of ice and the cold is seeping deeply into his core and out through his limbs. He does a reluctant and fast pat down of his body so he doesn’t track a bunch of water before wrapping the towel around his chest. 

He opens the bathroom door and looks both ways down the hallway to make sure he won’t bump into Ford before padding away to Ford’s room. He nudges the door partially closed behind himself then stands in front of Ford’s dresser like it might bite him. His duffel is still on the couch, half unzipped with safe clothes inside of it. Sure, they’re all dirty, stained, way too big for him, and not at all suited for keeping one warm, but he knows they’ll fit on him and cover him up. He stares at his duffel for minutes while he tries to sike himself up enough to even open one of Ford’s dresser drawers. When he finally finds the courage, he opens one of the top drawers and almost laughs at the sight.

Inside the drawer are neat rows of Ford’s underwear. There are two rows of perfectly lined up briefs with a measly few pairs of boxers folded in a sparse third row. For half a second, he completely dismisses the drawer before remembering the sorry state of his own dirty clothing. Ford  _ had _ offered his clothing to him. While it seems a little weird to wear his brother’s underwear, he’s so enamored with the idea of wearing nice,  _ clean _ underwear that he glances towards the half-closed bedroom door before snatching the first folded pair of boxers out of the row. He sniffs and pretends like he totally isn’t going to borrow his brother’s underwear as he pulls open a few more drawers until he finds what looks to be pajama bottoms.

Between securing the towel with one hand and holding the boxers in the other, he gives a frustrated sound before letting the towel fall to the floor so he can rifle through Ford’s things better. Most of the bottoms are thick and soft with neutral, flat colors. He almost laughs because they’re so Ford-like. As he looks through the piles of neatly folded bottoms, he’s gripped with a sharp edge of envy. He hasn’t had proper pajamas since he was eighteen.

He rubs his thumb distractedly across the waistband of a pair of red buffalo checked bottoms. They’re soft and thick and he’s sure they’re made of flannel. He makes sure to be careful when pulling them out so as not to completely destroy every other folded pair of pajama bottoms in the drawer.

He shoves himself into the boxers and bottoms as fast as he can not only to try and reduce the chills that shake through his limbs, but in the hopes that if he moves fast enough, he won’t have to deal with the clothes not fitting. Once they’re on, however, it’s evident that he wasn’t going to have a problem regardless. 

For as big as he has been in his life, he’s always been broad up top and thinner through his hips and legs. He wants to groan about him and Ford still being exactly the same pants size, but he’s so relieved that he can even wear some of Ford’s clothes that he breathes out his annoyance as he goes searching for a shirt. The shirts are less forgiving when he finds them.

He knows it was stupid to think that he would just magically fit into one of Stanford’s shirts, but his success with the bottoms had bolstered him enough that he found a shirt and attempted to put it on unwavering. He can’t even get one arm through with his head before the material refuses to stretch any further. He throws the shirt at the dresser and walks away from it feeling stupid and angry.

He runs a hand through his hair and pulls it in frustration. There’s no way he’s not going to look stupid going back downstairs with Ford’s pants and one of his own, dirty shirts. He can picture it now, Ford asking him about it and having to tell him that he’s too  _ ginormous _ to fit into one of Ford’s shirts. 

Stan kicks the side of the couch and immediately swears when the wooden base is unforgiving to his toes. He drops to a knee and breathes heavy against his other knee in pain. When the blistering heat of pain lessens into an uncomfortable throb, he lifts his head and makes a noise of frustration. He glares off towards the other side of the room near Ford’s nightstand, not wanting to see the offending dresser as his eyes burn with tears. Then he spots something crumpled on the floor that sparks his attention. 

He winces as he stands. His legs are going numb and his toes still ache, but he hobbles over to the discarded clothing and picks it up. It’s a light blue sweatshirt with mustard yellow letters outlined in red reading ‘Backupsmore University’. He stares hard at the sweatshirt before letting out a small breath of excitement. Ford had still gone to a great school! Universities are the fancy ones probably, he thinks.

He lets out a disbelieving sound as he tries to find the bottom of the sweatshirt. It’s probably stupid to try and fit into Ford’s clothes again, but he is so pumped he’s nearly willing to force himself into the sweatshirt just from excitement. But he doesn’t need to. 

The sweatshirt is somewhat tight across his chest and shoulders, but it fits and is nicely baggy around his stomach. His lips tilt up into a disbelieving smile. The sweatshirt fits! Not only that, but it smells just like Ford. It has the same scent as Ford’s bed, but the sweatshirt also smells of deodorant and sweat and is so heady and  _ perfect _ . He’s half convinced he won’t ever take this sweatshirt off again as he smooths his hands over the embroidered lettering. Feeling a little better about things, he does a quick search and stuffs his feet into Ford’s fancy, fur lined slippers before making his way downstairs.

Ford makes coffee first and foremost after he leaves Stanley to go and shower. Once he has a cup of coffee to sip on, he starts tackling the most pressing issue: dinner. 

It doesn’t take a genius to see that something is wrong with Stan and his current relationship with food. Considering his own general indifference to food, he chalks it up to Stan’s time doing whatever he was doing in the years they were apart. Surely, Stan didn’t have a stable ability to eat, so he must just be operating under the assumption that there isn’t food for him. Still, Stan looks terrible. It’s clear his body is running on empty and probably has been for ages. 

Something possessive and ugly swims behind his eyes. He loves Stanley, but he doesn’t want Stan like this. Stan looks so pitiful that Ford knows he has to take it upon himself to right the issue. 

He takes inventory of what food he has as he tries to figure out what to prepare. He has no doubt that neither of them is particularly eager to eat a huge meal, so he tries to pick out lighter, nutrient dense foods. As he pulls out a handful of vegetables from the fridge, something crosses his mind. He had only briefly studied and experimented with supplemental nutritional powders when he was so engrossed in his work that he didn’t care to find the time to cook full meals but he thinks he might still have some around somewhere. He digs through cabinets after setting the vegetables in the sink until he finds a small stack of round tins. Perfect.

He pulls the few tins out and reads the labels he had scrawled on them. There’s a mix meant to supplement protein and various vitamins and minerals that promote blood health, a mixture meant to supplement bone health, and one meant to help keep joints healthy. It’s a good start, but he will surely have to create a few more blends to help Stan recuperate to a suitable health. He places the tins on the counter next to the sink and returns to digging for food to complete the meal.

Half an hour later, he is surprised to hear Stan coming down the stairs just as he is finishing up a meager soup he’s concocted. The tins are back, hidden in a cabinet, but he has two bowls set out, one of which contains a mixture of the powders.

He is leaning back against the counter next to the stove sipping another cup of coffee when Stan walks in looking a little more alive. When Stan spots him, he smiles and stops to lean against the doorframe to the kitchen. He offers a small smile back and looks Stan up and down, satisfaction curling in his chest when Stan drops his gaze, cheeks pink.

“I see you found my university sweatshirt.” Ford gestures faintly with his coffee mug. Stan shrugs and walks into the kitchen. Ford notices his good slippers on Stan’s feet with a faint smile. Something curls, strange and hot, in his stomach at seeing Stan in his belongings.

“You didn’t tell me you went to such a good school, Sixer.” Stan crosses to the table and sinks into a chair, body facing Ford. Ford is about to correct him when Stan continues. “What is this, one of the Ivy leagues? I shouldn’t have doubted you’d still overachieve when I was gone.” Stan has this stupid little smile on his face that Ford can’t really decipher. Stan looks so sad but so  _ proud _ . He decides not to correct Stan, which doesn’t end up mattering when Stan speaks up again.

“So, whadda ya making, Poindexter?” Stan seems... _ off _ as he asks the question. Ford pulls his mug from his mouth and swallows his coffee.

“Vegetable soup. It should be just about done, actually.” He sets down his mug while Stan hums an acknowledging sound. Stan starts to stand but Ford motions him to sit again. “I’ve got it, Stanley. Just sit and relax.” Stan lowers back into his seat, a soft expression taking over his features.

Ford grabs one of the bowls and fills it to what he can only presume is an adequate amount of vegetables and broth. He sets the bowl back onto the counter and uses his other hand to turn off the stove. He puts a spoon in the bowl and stirs before doing the same with the next bowl meant for himself.

Stan looks uneasy but gives Ford an appreciative look when he sets a bowl in front of him. Ford takes his seat adjacent to Stan and doesn’t hesitate to start eating. Stan lags momentarily, not moving at all until Ford sends him a questioning glance.

They eat in a comfortable silence for a while after that. Ford is glancing at his stacked research papers on the other side of the table when he becomes aware that Stan’s stopped eating. He doesn’t say anything and continues eating himself for a few minutes longer before he decides to say anything.

“Something wrong?” Stan startles at the question and tries to cover it up with an uneasy laugh.

“Course not, Sixer. I was just, uh, slowing down so I didn’t finish way before you.” Stan throws on that faux confidence Ford knows is just to placate. Stan’s hand twitches on the table, a surefire sign that Stan is nervous. Ford makes a considering sound despite the fact that he knows Stan is lying. Something in him prickles at the fact, but he pushes it down as he determines to see what Stan will do.

Ford goes back to his food, but he reaches his free hand out to rest on Stan’s. He can feel Stan stiffen at the touch before Stan turns his hand over to interlink their fingers. Stan takes his spoon in his opposite hand and looks like he might start eating again. When he doesn’t, hand holding the spoon shaking, Ford squeezes their entwined fingers to urge Stan on wordlessly. Somewhat to his surprise, Stan lets out a slow breath and then starts eating again. He makes a mental note of that as he refocuses on his own food.

He, of course, finishes way before Stan, but he keeps giving Stan urging squeezes until they’re both sitting with empty bowls in front of them. After what he assumes is a polite enough time to wait, he stands and picks up his bowl. He lets go of Stan’s hand and grabs Stan’s bowl as well. He chooses not to mention how Stan looks ready to vomit.

Neither say anything while he puts away the leftover soup and then washes the dishes. When he finishes, he dries his hands on a dish towel and turns to look at Stan.

“How about we go upstairs and lay down?” Stan meets his gaze looking surprised but excited.

“Yeah, sounds great.” Stan stands and immediately looks sick again. Ford walks over to him and places a firm hand on the small of his back. He can feel a shiver beneath his hand while Stan gives an embarrassed smile. “Dinner was great, Sixer. Thank you.” Stan looks like he wants to say more. Instead of saying anything, he turns and starts heading for the door. Ford follows, flipping the kitchen lights off behind them.

Halfway up the stairs, Stan stops, breathing heavily through his nose. Ford stands with him, rubbing his back until Stan laughs it off and continues up the rest of the stairs two at a time. He isn’t sure what to make of Stan’s odd behavior but shrugs it off as a byproduct of the strange day. He follows Stan and shuts his bedroom door after he walks in.

Stan hovers near the couch looking unsure of himself. Ford walks past him to his bed and clears his throat to get Stan’s attention. Stan looks up at him as he pats the bed in invitation. Stan shuffles over and toes off Ford’s slippers before climbing into the bed looking flustered. Ford sits on its edge so he can bend down and unlace his boots before pulling them and his socks off. When that’s done, he scoots back onto the bed and settles underneath the blankets with Stan. 

Even with the lights off, Ford can tell Stan is on edge. He adjusts himself, settling back into the numerous pillows that line the headboard before murmuring for Stan to get closer. He loops an arm behind Stan’s shoulders and guides Stan’s head to his chest. 

Stan’s half curled around him once they’re fully settled. Ford rubs one hand up and down Stan’s side while the other cards through his hair slowly. It’s longer than when they were in high school, but not by much. It’s probably the first time since they were really young that their hair is about the same length, he muses.

Stan inhales and breathes out a heavy, slow sigh against his chest. He presses a short kiss to Stan’s head in a long forgotten instinctive movement that he feels Stan twitch at.

“‘S been awhile since we cuddled, Sixer.” Ford hums in response, remembering how they used to make excuses to curl up together any and everywhere they could when they were young and could get away with it.

“Being estranged for eight years will do that.” He feels Stan stiffen in his arms. “We can do this now, however. And in the future. We’ll have all of the time to make up for the time we lost soon.” Ford presses cool fingers to the soft curve of Stan’s neck. Stan flinches but doesn’t make any attempt to move away as Ford traces the hard line of Stan’s jaw to his chin and then over his lips. 

Stan’s breath is hot and measured as it dances over the backs of his fingers. He presses into the seam of Stan’s mouth until he can feel the damp line of Stan’s lower lip on the pad of his index just to see what Stan’s reaction will be. He’s rewarded with a half-formed sound before Stan lets out a whispered, ‘Sixer?’ that he doesn’t respond to. Instead, he drags his hand back to scratch lightly at Stan’s scalp.

Ford feels one of Stan’s hands curl around his side tight enough to make him question the intent behind it. Eventually, however, the grip loosens as Stan starts to breathe more deeply, clearly asleep. He keeps his eyes trained on Stan as much as he can in the dark and just soaks in the feeling of holding his brother’s prone form. Something about that burns inside of Ford.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find my GF blog at mysterykeebs.tumblr.com to keep up to date with my writing


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> https://open.spotify.com/track/6G8nuYg4kAelsmwDipchRx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw: disassociation, fighting, choking someone unconscious, blood

Stan jerks awake in the dark gray of the early morning. For half a moment, he runs through a tangle of emotions from paranoia to an unsettling, bone-deep sense of loss. He’s stuck somewhere between the first night after he was kicked out, curled up in his backseat, and the seemingly endless year he spent in prison. As he tries to pull himself from the stew of confusion and grogginess, he can’t figure out why he’s lying on his stomach or how he is this warm and comfortable when he remembers with a jolt that he’s back in the States in Gravity Falls. He breathes in deeply and counts the seconds as he lets out a ragged sigh. 

That’s right. He’s in Oregon, huddled up in a house tucked away in the woods far from any of the lives he has left behind.  _ With Ford _ . Relief washes over him in a wave. He flexes his fingers, feels the weight of the blankets over his body, the softness of the  _ real _ bedding against his exposed skin. Elation tears through him viciously until he remembers the previous night and his heart somersaults. 

Nothing could have prepared him for how nice it was to be wrapped up in Ford’s arms. When they were younger, more often than not it was Stan holding and comforting Ford. Still, even when Stan did allow himself to drop his ‘tough guy’ attitude long enough for Ford to take it up, it was always an endeavor of skinny arms and nervous sweating. But now Ford is grown and so sure of himself. 

Stan buries his face into one of the pillows. His skin crawls with the remembered heat and the press of firm fingers curled around his skull. He wishes with some measure of desperation that Ford had stayed, that he could have woken up in that pocket of protection that Ford’s mere presence had created. With a bit of a pang, he wonders if he’ll find himself in the willing grasp of his brother again or if it was a one time thing.

He kicks out his legs and stretches them until his back pops hard enough that he groans in satisfaction. He lays there for a while, skirting the edge of drifting off again as he’s caught between the warmth of the covers and the lingering scent of Ford on the pillows. Eventually, however, his bodily functions beat him in a test of wills and he gets up to take a piss.

He flushes the toilet and is hunched over the sink washing his hands just for the sake of warming them up when he gets a look at himself in the mirror by accident. It feels as if every particle in his body shifts half an inch in a random direction before snapping back harshly into place. He remembers Ford cooking for him, holding his hand as he forced himself through eating an entire meal he didn’t want nor deserved. 

His body starts shaking uncontrollably. He can feel himself slipping into the dark space at the back of his head as his eyes glaze and his vision blurs out of focus. The water from the sink stings the backs of his hands, turning his skin strikingly red dappled and angry looking despite his deep tan, but it grows faint as his thoughts swirl. His reflection stares back at him through the mirror as a stranger. 

Stan sinks backwards when he loses awareness of his legs. In the small space, he hits the edge of the toilet just right of his spine then sprawls to the side hard enough that his body seizes from shock and his jaw rattles. He’s torn very abruptly back to awareness as pain rips through his body. He sucks in heavy half breaths through his teeth against the cold linoleum of the bathroom floor, unable to get a sound out. 

Everything starts spinning as nausea swells in his stomach. He shakes with the involuntary sobs that rack through him. His lips stick to the floor from a tacky puddle of saliva that trails from his gaping mouth. Tears, likewise, have started to dry between the floor and one of his flushed cheeks. 

He stays curled up, shaking and frozen on the bathroom floor until his eyes are swollen and dry, and the excruciating waves of pain throughout his back have dulled to a deep, biting tenderness. The nausea takes longer to dissipate. He manages after another few minutes of uncontrolled sniffling and tears to sit up and lean a shoulder against the toilet, head resting heavily against the closed lid.

As he gradually gets his breathing to slow down, he becomes more aware of Ford’s sweatshirt warm over his skin. He takes a slow, soggy breath through his mouth and focuses on the feeling of the sweatshirt’s cuffs against his wrists. 

With his eyes still closed, he squeezes a cuff between his fingers and rubs slow circles. While the material is soft, it catches on the dry, calloused pads of his fingers in a wholly unpleasant shock to his shaky nerves. He lets his fingers fall from the cuff to move up to the collar of the sweatshirt. He tucks his nose into the small gap of warm air just inside of the collar. A chill dances along his skin when Ford’s scent is heavy and warm and  _ real _ in his nose.

He ends up sitting on the cold floor with his nose tucked into Ford’s sweatshirt as the small space grows damp and hot for much longer than he really means to. By the time he gets up, the still running water in the sink is completely cold. He staggers out of the bathroom slowly. The bedroom is noticeably lighter despite still being swathed in dark gray shadows.

He fumbles around in the semi-dark for a few minutes trying to get out of Ford’s clothes and into his own without breaking down into angry tears. Once dressed, he warily brushes his teeth, keeping his eyes on his feet to keep from adding to the swollen, hot reminder of his incompetence. 

Once presentable enough for working on the portal, he hobbles downstairs and stops to kick his grubby, hole-ridden shoes onto his feet by the door. Not seeing Ford in the kitchen, he figures his brother must be in the basement, so he makes his way through the living room and around the corner to the stairs leading down to the elevator.

As expected, he finds Ford in the basement, hunched over his desk scribbling furiously into a journal. He steps off of the elevator and takes a few steps forward until it’s obvious that Ford either isn’t going to notice him or is ignoring him. So, he takes a careful seat just outside of the disarray of papers surrounding Ford and just watches.

Surprisingly, Ford looks like he’s been up and at it for a while. His hair is a bit mussed and it’s evident that he hasn’t showered for longer than one might consider socially acceptable, but his eyes are bright and his features are open and expressive of his concentration. 

Stan likes moments like this. Even when they were younger, he’s always admired Ford’s intense passion for everything science related and nerdy. He’s especially always loved seeing Ford get so into whatever it is he’s obsessing over. Just knowing that something fills his brother up so much fills him up by proxy.

He starts to miss Ford’s sweatshirt when the cold of the basement finally catches up and seeps into him. It’s his shivering and hand rubbing that eventually seems to pull Ford’s attention away from his work.

Ford seems startled when he finally realizes that Stan has been watching him. Stan clenches his twitching jaw and offers a small smile in the hopes that Ford won’t notice how miserable he must look. He can only assume it works, at least partially, because Ford tucks his pen into the journal and closes it before standing and motioning Stan to follow him into the adjoining room.

And so life continues like it has been. He spends the day working on the portal, though he has to take his time as the ache in his back flares, until Ford ushers them upstairs for dinner. He nearly refuses, his facade of okay-ness beginning to wither after his incident that morning, but Ford doesn’t leave him any room to argue. So, he trudges upstairs to change his shirt and pull on Ford’s sweatshirt while Ford cooks. After they eat a meal of chicken with broccoli and rice, he feels heavy and nauseous and is completely unable to stay present as his thoughts grow increasingly consumed by his need to empty his stomach.

They eventually stand side-by-side washing dishes together after clearing their spots at the table. Ford washes the dishes while he rinses them and puts them on a rack to dry. When Ford moves to head back downstairs, he follows in a daze until Ford asks him what he’s doing.

“I was going to keep helping you with the portal?” He shifts uncomfortably under Ford’s questioning eyes. Ford just looks at him for long enough that he is convinced that Ford can read the guilt that must be on his face. Ford eventually blinks and reaches out to curl a hand along the back of his neck. He slumps into the touch, already defeated.

“I appreciate the enthusiasm, Stan, but I need this time for things a bit above your understanding.” Ford drags his thumb across the soft curve that dips just below the back of his skull. He frowns but doesn’t argue. Seemingly satisfied by his compliance, Ford leans in to press his lips to Stan’s temple, kissing the spot softly. He wants to ask if Ford will be upstairs once he’s done with his work, but Ford nods and pulls away before he has the chance to open his mouth.

He stands in the hallway as the minutes tick past in a blur. His body is too warm and his skin prickles where Ford had touched him. Eventually, he regains himself enough to wander back towards the kitchen before deciding that he wants a cigarette before trying to figure out how to entertain himself for the evening.

Even with his own jacket shoved over Ford’s sweatshirt, he starts shivering as soon as he has the porch door closed behind himself. He makes his way to the porch railing and pulls a cigarette out of his pack. He lets his mind drift as he smokes his way through nearly a dozen cigarettes. 

Everything is covered in a thick layer of snow that, by his own estimate, is at least a foot deep. The Stanmobile is parked around the corner just close enough that he can see the sorry state of his pride and joy being smothered in snow. His keys are a solid, frozen jumble in his pocket that he fingers until he decides that, for the sake of his baby, he’s going to battle the elements and try to start it. 

He trudges through the snow with a steady stream of curses as his shoes dampen. The driver’s side door is frozen in place when he tries it. He gives the freezing handle a few more healthy tugs before the door pops open with a crack of shattered ice. He manages to catch himself before he slips into the snow.

“Fucking hell, someone’s got it out for my back today…” he hisses, back throbbing as he ducks into the driver’s seat. 

After shutting the door, he’s left in the quiet cold of his car. He breathes out a chattering breath, mist curling past his lips as he shoves the key into the ignition. In a surprising turn of events, the ignition only clicks twice before roaring to life. He gives a mental triumphant fist pump into the air before turning the heat up as high as it can go. 

Sitting in his car with the air on full blast while it warms up is torture. By the time the air finally starts to blow air out that isn’t freezing, he’s shaking with his hands shoved into his armpits. Eventually he turns his car off and heads back to the porch, but he’s quickly too cold to keep smoking, so he goes inside. Ford hasn’t come upstairs, so he kicks off his shoes and decides to just go to bed.

The next few days are much the same. He wakes up in the early hours of the morning and joins Ford in the basement to work on the portal until evening. They each work on their separate things and slowly, he finds himself slipping into the routine of the portal. Seemingly by chance, he doesn’t have any more huge blunders. To Ford’s credit, however, the explanations tend to include simpler terms and much more demonstration now. 

Somehow, eating dinner together also makes its way into their schedule. On one hand, he has to fight himself to sit down and eat, and then to keep up a charade of nonchalance while his body urges him to clean himself out in the bathroom. On the other hand, he’s so desperate for that short pocket of time that’s just him and Ford sitting knee to knee as they catch up and go over the plan for the next day. Enough so that he will sweat and shake through the nausea and cosmic sense of discomfort just to spend a few extra minutes with his brother chatting or cleaning up before Ford goes back to the basement alone and he starts to smokes his way to a regular habit. 

As the days grow shorter and colder, Stan prickles with restlessness. He’s unused to having so much empty time with himself, for good reason. It doesn’t take long for him to become acutely aware of the chasm that yawns deep in his core. He starts going to bed early and stares at the walls for hours. He only later notices this when he realizes that he’s losing time. 

A discovery of a cardboard box full of books from his childhood nearly saves him. Most of the books are elementary level chapters, but he recognizes a few as the unused classics he and Ford had to read in high school. He won’t admit it, but when he realizes that all of the high school books are  _ his own _ that he never returned, unmarked and practically new in his hands, he feels unburdened by being alive for just a moment. So, he starts reading again. 

He starts on the floor by the cardboard box in the faux living room until the darkness of the room gets to him. Then, he moves to the kitchen so he can sip coffee for warmth as literary worlds spread out in front of him. 

Ford catches him a few nights in a row after he comes back upstairs when Stan is so engrossed that he doesn’t realize he’s been reading for hours non-stop. It’s nice until he starts making himself sick everyday after drinking pot after pot of black coffee on an empty stomach. Eventually, he settles on reading in Ford’s bed with the covers pulled up to his chest and the warm, yellow glow of the lamp lulling him towards sleep. He never remembers Ford coming up after he moves his permanent reading spot to Ford’s bed, but he always wakes up completely tucked in with the lamp off and his book lying on the nightstand with a pen tucked between its pages.

It’s nearly Christmas when he finds himself outside smoking and stewing in his feelings about  _ Moby Dick _ and then runs out of cigarettes. When he digs around for another cigarette and feels nothing, he wants to shout. He chucks the empty pack into the snow and shoves his face into his hands miserably. 

He glares at the discarded pack in the snow until guilt gnaws at him to the point of waddling out into the snow to pick up the crumpled, sorry excuse of cardboard before he forgets and Ford yells at him. Shoving the pack into his coat pocket, he turns and catches sight of his car. He tries to remember if he stashed any cigarettes in there as he shuffles towards it. 

He opens the door and falls into the driver’s seat heavily deciding that he might as well just let his car run for a few minutes while he’s out here. He digs out his keys and turns the car on before searching fruitlessly for hidden cigarettes. Not finding any cigarettes, he crosses his arms over his chest and tries to will the cold out of his bones. The radio plays quiet Christmas tunes through the speakers. One of his feet absently bobs to the beat of the holiday tunes.

He sits there until the air blowing out of the vents is nice and warm. Finally relaxing a bit, he smooths his palms over the wheel and feels the itch to leave and  _ do _ something. He’s not quite emotionally ready to invest in another story yet, and Ford will be working late into the night so… Stan buckles himself up and puts his car into reverse before he can talk himself out of it.

He had only just barely paid any mind to Gravity Falls when he first drove in. Now, with the roads covered in deep snow, he vaguely wishes he had paid more attention to the route. It’s a slow going trek but eventually, through stubbornness and sheer luck, the Stanmobile is rolling to a stop in a parking spot downtown in one piece.

Everything is lit up and glowing a dusty yellow in the hazy gray of the evening. There are a few people who walk along the shovelled sidewalks and more inside the businesses lining the road. He takes a moment to just sit and observe. It’s been, christ, over a month since he’s even seen another person besides Ford? It’s strange to be here in this place that’s been Ford’s home and not his own. 

Gravity Falls is a lot smaller than most of the places he’s squatted in over the years. It’s definitely got a small town atmosphere, thankfully. The smaller the town, the less likely they know of him and his thesis length of crimes. 

He hums to himself and turns his attention from following a rabbit hole to a dark place in his memories when he spots a general store just down the sidewalk. He stuffs his keys into his pocket as he gets out of his car and then trudges to the sidewalk before heading down the street towards the store. A bell tinkles when he walks in.

The store is small and not particularly eye catching other than the holiday decorations out on the floor. He scrunches his nose, a pang aching in his chest, and heads towards the sole employee in sight who slouches behind a cash register. He has to clear his throat to get the employee’s attention away from a magazine.

“Hello, what can I help you with today, sir?” Stan can’t tell if this employee is a teenager or in their early twenties, but the desire to smack them upside the head remains the same. 

He tells them to grab him a couple of packs of cigarettes. He’s tempted to pocket something while the cashier is turned around just because he can, but his attention is distracted by the glowing sign of a diner just a ways further down the opposite side of the street. The cashier rings him up and he pays with the few measly bills he has left. He shoves all but one of the packs into his jacket, the last going into the front pocket of his jeans as he slips out of the store’s swinging door. Not seeing anything else particularly interesting or worthwhile, he turns and makes a beeline for the diner.

Fat flakes of snow start to curl through the air consistently as he cuts across the street. He shoves his hands into his pockets and briefly thinks about pulling one or both of the hoods over his head. 

As he gets closer to the diner, he can make out that the glowing sign reads ‘Greasys’ and that the diner looks like a train car. That elicits an eyebrow raise, but he takes the few stairs up to the deck and then pushes inside the building. 

He’s immediately met with warm air, the smell of coffee, and the quiet burble of people chatting as they eat. The diner door swings closed slowly behind him as he stands and just looks around. After a moment of just digesting the scene, he walks up to the counter and takes a free seat next to a tiny, haggard looking man. 

A woman, probably a few years younger than himself, greets him and slides a mug his way before filling it with coffee. He thanks her and takes the hot mug between his hands, cold practically seeping off of him.

He takes a sip of the coffee before really thinking about the fact that the coffee is probably scalding. He grunts when the hot liquid scorches his lips and promptly sloshes back out of his mouth, partially into the mug and partially down his front. His hand jerks from the surprise, but the other impulsive, reactionary movements his body tries to play out simply die off in his stiff, reactionless limbs. Coffee does still manage to spill onto the counter from the jolt that goes through his hand.

He sets the mug down away from the spillage and is just starting to look for napkins to clean it up when a hand reaches in front of him. His gaze trails from the hand, up the arm, and to the exhausted but handsome face of the scraggly man beside him.

“Oh, thanks. Coffee’s, uh, really hot.” He wipes his sleeve across his stinging mouth and tries his best to keep out of the way until the man has mopped up the puddle of coffee on the counter. After the man takes his hand back to drop the wet napkins onto his empty plate, he turns his head to give Stan a polite smile and offer a hand when his expression falters and his hand drops. Stan sits with his own hand half outstretched between them.

“Do...do I know you?” The man’s voice is soft, but it shakes and the man’s eyes are wide and dilated. Stan drops his hand as well and clears his throat as unease grows heavy in his gut.

“Nope. I have never seen you before.” He shifts his weight, ready to make a break should it be necessary. The man looks him over and mumbles to himself.

“Are you sure? I-” the man’s gaze stops over Stan’s chest- “You went to Backupsmore?  _ I _ went to Backupsmore. I  _ do _ know you!” Stan’s hands shoot up, palms out, as the man’s voice rises. The man is starting to look wild. Stan is almost entirely certain he’s not all the way there.

“No, no! My brother went there, this is his. I promise you, we’ve never met.” At his words, the man starts to mumble again, eyes turning down to Stan’s placating hands. The man stares long enough that the urge to make a break for it kicks up again.

He jumps when the man takes one of his hands and lines one of his own up with it. Out of everything that he has had to face while living on the run for the better part of a decade, this has got to take the cake for the most bizarrely precarious situation he has ever found himself in.

He holds still while the man examines his hand. It’s a weirdly intimate exchange as the man caresses his fingers and palm, slotting their fingers together like there’s some secret he can’t quite decipher there. Stan would be lying if he said the exchange wasn’t causing his body to short circuit and ring alarms all at once for a number of reasons.

When the man breathes out a sigh, so does he.

“I think you’re right…” Something akin to heartbreak seems to seep from the dark circles and premature wrinkles that deepen as the man returns to himself. Stan itches with a sudden and sinking grief that he’s hurt this man he doesn’t even know just by being himself.

“Hey, but we can meet now? I’m Sta-”

“Stanley.” He swallows his name and stares at the man with a vicious apprehension.

“Yeah… _ Do _ I know you?” The man pulls his hand back and looks just as startled as Stan’s sure he looks himself. The man’s expression scrunches, a deep line creasing between two brown eyebrows.

“No...no. I just…” the man swallows and then smiles a soft, sure smile. “Stanley seemed right.” 

Stan’s heart is beating hard enough to choke him. Every nerve in his body is on edge and ready to spur him out of the diner and as far away from this man as possible, but there’s something so disarming and magnetic about the man as well. He isn’t sure if it’s the southern accent or the unreasonably trustworthy blue eyes, but he’s ensnared nonetheless. 

“I’m Fiddleford, by the way.” Fiddleford extends his hand again. Stan reaches out for the handshake with a small smile of his own.

“Nice to meet you, Fiddleford.” The anxiety that had been building to an overwhelming degree in his chest starts to subside in increments.

Fiddleford’s hand is warm and solid despite its seemingly delicate structure. When they let go, he can’t help the thought that, other than the brief moment of near hysterics, Fiddleford is one hell of a charming man.

“Oh! Can’t forget about this devilishly handsome fellah.” Fiddleford leans back just a fraction so Stan can see just past him. He expects another blue-eyed, southern charmer, and is not disappointed when instead, a stick of a kid pops his head forward. Fiddleford pats the kid’s head of dark curls affectionately.

“I’ve never seen anyone make my dad get all weird in public like that.” The kid’s brown eyes are dark and incredibly piercing as he shoves a forkful of pancakes into his mouth with nonchalance. Fiddleford tenses and attempts to whisper to the kid not to say things like that to people, but the kid brushes him away and points the fork in Stan’s direction.

“You ever see someone do a cartwheel with one hand before?”

“Tater Elliot, where are your manners?” That crease between Fiddleford’s eyebrows appears again as he frowns. The kid groans out a miserable sound and slumps against the counter.

“ _ D-ad _ ! Don’t call me that, it’s embarrassing.” The kid continues to groan as Fiddleford fixes him with an increasingly unrelenting disappointed yet expecting expression. Finally, the kid slaps his hand on the counter and huffs out a ‘fine’.

Stan has to bite down a chuckle when the kid stretches out a thin hand.

“My name’s Tate and I’m ten years old. My favorite color is green and one time I lost a tooth because I ran into a wall. So, have you ever seen anyone do a cartwheel with one hand?” Stan shakes the kids hand with a quiet chuckle. Tate’s cheeks are rosy but he looks pretty nonplussed about the whole situation despite Fiddleford’s exasperated frown. He shakes his head as Tate takes his hand back to grab his fork and continue on the pancakes.

“Can’t say that I have, kid.” This response elicits an excited grin from Tate. He imagines the kid’s eyebrows are damn near to his hairline by now, but considering the thick mop of dark hair that curls just about all the way to the kid’s eyes, he can’t say for sure.

“You are  _ not _ doing cartwheels in a  _ diner _ , Tate!” Fiddleford’s exasperation grows at Tate’s surprised gasp. “Eat your pancakes and behave. It’s no wonder I’m getting grey hairs so young.” Fiddleford rolls his eyes and offers Stan a small shrug and smile. There’s a gurgle of groans as Tate shoves forkfuls of pancakes into his mouth, syrup rolling off of his chin to his plate. Stan is pretty sure Fiddleford goes through all five stages of grief watching the kid let half chewed pancakes fall out of his mouth.

It’s eerily natural to reach out and squeeze Fiddleford’s shoulder. Fiddleford sends him a defeated huff and sags under his hand. He offers a smile as he takes his hand back.

“So,” Fiddleford turns so he can better face Stan and avoid the sight of Tate creating a ruckus, “you got any kids of your own?” He nearly blanches at the question. Instead, he starts chuckling nervously.

“Oh, no, definitely not. Kids are great, but only when you can give them back.” He scratches the back of his neck and tries to hide how blind sided the question got him. Fiddleford just snickers with a small nod.

“I get the sentiment. Kids can be a handful sometimes.” Fiddleford makes a vague motion towards the kid but looks damn proud.

“I won’t lie, I was a hellraiser as a kid, so I know better than most.” Glass shard beach pops into his head before he can tamp it down. He slumps into the ache of the memories for a moment before he remembers that the only thing that had ever meant anything during his childhood is back in his life and not going anywhere for the foreseeable future.

“You? Well, you don’t seem quite the type.” Fiddleford gets this goofy grin on his face like he can imagine  _ exactly _ what kind of a kid Stan had been. He can’t help it, he starts telling the story of the time he broke his arm after a prank gone wrong because he hadn’t realized that the short wall he vaulted in an attempt to hide ran along a steep drop to the beach. Fiddleford damn near  _ cackles _ as he recounts numerous of his dumbest moments as a kid running amuck in a small New Jersian city. 

He laughs and feels his face getting warmer. Fiddleford’s laugh is so kind and infectious in the cozy atmosphere of the diner. 

“What about you? I’m sure you were a darling child.” He leans over to bump his shoulder into Fiddleford’s, who nudges him back with a faux expression of offense.

“I’ll have you know I was my mama’s pride and joy!” Fiddleford starts to snicker again as he leans in, voice low, “Until I learned to walk!” When Fiddleford lets out a howl of uncontrolled laughter before slapping a hand over his mouth, Stan can’t help but chortle in kind.

“Oh, but you should’ve seen Tate as a toddler. He was a storm to be reckoned with when he got off in’ta trouble.” Fiddleford turns to nudge Tate only to find an empty stool and a plate with a few clumps of forgotten pancakes. Fiddleford’s expression drops in an instant.

There’s a familiar lump in Stan’s throat. He knows it as soon as Fiddleford jumps up and scans the diner frantically. He grabs Fiddleford by the shoulders and gets his attention with a short shake.

“Breathe. He probably didn’t go far. I’ll help you find him, I promise.” He squeezes Fiddleford’s shoulders until Fiddleford’s expression tames and he nods, reaching up to give Stan’s forearm a squeeze as well.

“Yes, yes, of course. Let me pay for this. I’ve got your coffee, don’t worry.” He drops his hands and Fiddleford pulls out a wallet to drop a few bills on the counter, sliding Stan’s coffee cup towards his plate. When he turns back around, Stan steps back to let him lead the way back out of the diner.

“Tate! Tater Elliot McGucket!” Fiddleford lowers his cupped hands from his mouth as he waits for any response in the drawn out silence of the cold. When a response doesn’t come, Fiddleford starts calling out Tate’s name again. Stan starts taking quick strides towards the road, instincts driving him forward.

He hears Fiddleford call again as he rounds a line of short trees. He starts heading towards town but stops when he sees something off to the side on what appears to be another line of parking for Greasy’s. He squints and tries to figure out what he’s looking at through the shadows and his fuzzy vision. There’s a pause between Fiddleford’s calls when he hears a familiar giggle. 

“Fiddleford! I think he’s over here!” He half jogs down the snowy pavement until Tate’s scrawny silhouette resolves. Relief washes through him until he sees a very large man standing behind Tate. 

He doesn’t even give it a thought when he sprints forward and clocks the guy before turning, sliding along the slick snow, before hoisting Tate onto a shoulder and skittering back around the corner where he runs straight into Fiddleford. All three of them go tumbling into the snow with three different shrieks.

Stan pops up first, adrenaline throttling him into overdrive. He crawls to Tate first and checks the kid. Panic suffocates him until the kid pops up himself with a hoot. Stan pauses just long enough that the kid launches at him in a peal of laughter. 

“That was  _ awesome _ ! Can we do it again, please,  _ please _ !” Tate starts to lean back, fingers tight in Stan’s jacket. He’s about to decline and check on Fiddleford who just groans in the snow a few feet away when he hears the sound of heavy footsteps coming their way. Stan links an arm around the kid and shuffles over to Fiddleford in case he has to beat the shit out of someone. 

He immediately notices two things about the guy that rounds the corner: the guy looks even bigger when he’s beneath a streetlamp and he looks  _ pissed _ . He nudges Fiddleford’s leg frantically until Fiddleford sits up with a groan.

“I think you knocked something loose there, Stanley. What are you-” Stan can only imagine that Fiddleford catches sight of the man when his words abruptly stop. “Daniel? What happened to you?” Stan drags his eyes from the still approaching man to Fiddleford. Fiddleford just gives him a confused and slightly concerned eyebrow raise.

The man stops a few feet away from the three of them still sitting in the snow, a hand to his jaw. Stan looks at Fiddleford and then the man who glares at Stan, all while Fiddleford looks between all three of them in increasing befuddlement.

“Dad! Dad! Stan  _ punched _ Manly Dan right in the face!” Tate squeals as he twists from Stan’s grasp to grab at Fiddleford. His body is still twitchy with adrenaline as an inkling of understanding worms its way into his head.

“You did  _ what _ ? Stanley, why would you do that?” He shoves his face into Ford’s sweatshirt as embarrassment tinges his face red. He hears Fiddleford ask if Manly Dan is okay and the long silence that stretches after. When the tension is too much to bear in his temporary sweater town, he chances a glance up to see Manly Dan grinning crookedly.

“You think he rattled  _ you _ , Fiddleford. I think he got at least one of my teeth.” Manly Dan lets out this deep growl of a chuckle as he leans down to pull Fiddleford and Tate up. Fiddleford seems lost still and turns between Tate and Manly Dan to fret over them. Stan swallows a lump when Manly Dan turns his stern gaze back to him. When he offers a hand, Stan takes it and is pulled straight up to his feet. He flounders in an attempt to find something reasonable to say to the man he just socked for no reason.

“You’ve got one hell of a left hook.” Manly Dan rests a hand on his hip and smirks. Stan rubs an arm and chokes out a half laugh.

“Yeah, I uh...I used to box. When I was a kid, y’know.” Stan sniffs and chances a look at Fiddleford. Manly Dan hums. Stan jumps when a heavy hand claps him on the back. Tears immediately prick at his eyes, his back shuddering as pain flares across it. He catches himself and wheezes. Fiddleford touches his arm, concern blatant in his eyes. Stan waves him off with the offer of a smile and a thumbs up.

“Well…” Fiddleford lets out a slow breath, “this has been a night. I’ll let you fellas work out whatever you’ve gotta work out. Daniel, it was a pleasure, however brief. Stanley,” Fiddleford’s eyes turn back to him, “It was so nice to meet you. I hope we can see you again sometime around Gravity Falls.” 

Stan lets out a surprised noise when Fiddleford wraps him in a hug. Tate squeezes against their waists not a moment later with a muffled giggle. He returns the hug after a beat. He waves goodbye as Fiddleford and Tate head back to their car in front of Greasy’s. After they pull out and are a ways down the road, he turns back sheepishly to Manly Dan.

“Look, I’m sorry for hitting you.” He rubs the back of his neck. “We couldn’t find the kid and I went straight into big brother mode. I really didn’t mean anything by it, I was just worried about the kid…” He swallows and lowers his hand.

“I ain’t never seen you around before. You new to town or just passing through?” He flinches again at how loud the words are.

“New. My brother lives nearby. I’ve been here about a month.” Manly Dan nods.

“Seems like we’ve been getting a lot of newer people the past couple of years.” Manly Dan chuckles and lifts a hand to his jaw. Stan flushes. “You know, we could always use some strong guys up at the logging camp if you’re looking for a job.” He’s visibly thrown for a loop for a moment.

“I just assaulted you and you’re...offering me a job? Not that I don’t appreciate it, it’s just that, in my experience, jobs like that aren’t usually the kind you want.” He squeezes his hands against his jeans. Every part of him is wet and cold or covered in snow that is making a quick job of making sure he gets wet and cold.

Manly Dan slaps the outside of a thigh with a very amused ‘ha’. 

“Your name’s Stanley, right?” He nods. “Well, you look like you could be a big guy like me. I like that about you. Not many people out here have an appreciation for big guys like us.” Manly Dan punches him in the arm in what he assumes is meant to be playful, but still hurts like hell even through his layers.

“I’m not that big. I used to be. In high school. Now I’m just,” he gives a ‘so-so’ motion with his hand.

“Guess I’m glad. Don’t know if I would’ve gotten up from that hit if you were any stronger.” Manly Dan gives this wide, lopsided grin that reveals his gapped front teeth. It’s only then that he can really tell that Manly Dan doesn’t look that old. He’s got bright grey eyes and a softly curved jaw beneath his stubble.

“Listen, I’ll forgive you for trying to punch my lights out, but only if you come out to the camp this summer and have a proper fight with me.” Manly Dan waggles a dark eyebrow up and down. Stan can only manage to nod back slowly. 

“I’m looking forward to it. You better put on some weight if you wanna have any chance at winning. I won’t hold back just because you’re behind the game.” Manly Dan holds out a hand and gives Stan a solid shake. “Oh, and you’re gonna have to wear more than that if you wanna make it through the winter. Things shrink in the cold, you know.” 

He grimaces and continues to be completely flabbergast at the entire situation that has somehow managed to unfold in such a short period of time. When Manly Dan unwraps the scarf from around his neck and leans forward to wrap it around Stan’s, he’s still trying to figure out what is happening and whether or not he is currently having a fever dream. The heat and heavy musk wafting from the scarf, along with the aching chill in his limbs lead him to believe that it’s unlikely, but he still considers it. Manly Dan gives him another playful jab before saying his goodbyes and heading towards the diner.

Stan stands there, snow collecting in his hair and on his eyelashes, dumbstruck. He eventually manages to pull himself out of his well of confusion to start heading back downtown towards his car. He spends another few minutes once he’s back in his car just letting the air warm up as he tries to digest his first visit to town before he puts his car into drive and starts heading back. 

The drive back to Ford’s is just as slow going as it had been earlier. Once he’s pulling back up the familiar drive, he parks at the front of the house and shuts his car off. He takes a moment to prepare himself for the cold before he gets out and books it back up to the house, nose tucked into the scarf. He stomps his shoes clear of snow on the porch before heading inside. 

After closing the door behind himself, he hangs up his jacket then tugs off the damp sweatshirt before moving to sit on the stairs to untie his shoes. There’s a sound from the kitchen and then Ford is standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed.

“Did you leave?” Stan hums an affirming sound as he tosses one shoe towards the door before starting on his other one, pulling his damp socks off as he goes. “I didn’t realize you had errands to run.” Something in Ford’s tone makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He tosses his other shoe towards the door and stands up before walking towards the kitchen and hovering a step away from Ford.

“I didn’t, Sixer, I just needed cigarettes.” Stan pulls the pack from his jeans, crumbled and damp from sliding around in the snow, to hold up for Ford to see. Ford’s eyes, however, stay locked at Stan’s throat. 

“You have a scarf?” He doesn’t know why, but Ford’s question fills him with unease. He starts to say something but Ford just leans in and presses his nose to the corner of Stan’s jaw before pulling away.

Ford doesn’t say anything, just gets one end of the scarf in a fist and pulls until Stan sees stars. He opens his mouth to say something or breathe to no avail. Ford circles him and edges him up against the wall. Ford presses into his space without batting an eye. All the while, he can’t breathe between the tight ring of the scarf against his throat and his lungs deciding to shut down from how close Ford is. His eyes dip and he stares at Ford’s mouth and immediately knows it’s a mistake. 

“What were you doing in town, Stanley?” Ford’s voice is low and dangerous. Stan forces himself to meet his brother’s piercing gaze.

“Cigarettes…” 

“Just cigarettes?” Ford reaches up and smooths his thumb over one of Stan’s cheekbones. Stan licks his lips, but his tongue is dry from his quick breathing through his mouth. The scarf tightens a fraction the longer he hesitates.

“I got sidetracked...”

“Sidetracked?” Stan nods. Ford’s hand slides around to hold the back of his head. He swallows thick as the scarf loosens before Ford pulls it off slowly. He shudders when the scarf hits the floor with a quiet sound.

Ford lets out a heavy breath through his nose. Ford cards fingers through Stan’s hair with one hand before reaching out for one of Stan’s own. There’s this horrifying moment of stillness when Ford pulls their hands up and runs his thumb across the backs of Stan’s knuckles one by one. Stan has to bite his tongue to keep from flinching as Ford squeezes the bruised joints. And then Ford looks at them in the light spilling from the kitchen. There’s no hiding the inflamed pinks or the blossoming purple spiderwebbed with yellow.

He only manages to scramble out of Ford’s grip because Ford doesn’t expect him to try and bolt. He shoves Ford hard enough that he stumbles backwards, giving Stan an opportunity to skitter to the door to try and fling himself outside. Ford sidelines him as he’s halfway out of the door because he doesn’t expect Ford to be so capable.

They skid across the porch in a heap. Stan is already scrambling to his feet by the time they stop moving, but Ford catches him around the ankle and he falls face first back to the ground. Ford moves to pin him down, but he’s spent years having to flee scraps, so he manages to push up before Ford can get him with a knee to the back. Instead of creating an opening he can use to flee, he misjudges what Ford is trying to do and ends up ramming the back of his head into Ford’s face. There’s a crunch and then a muffled curse.

He wants to crawl away, but he’s unable to ignore his frantic nerves telling him to check on Ford. He turns around slowly. Ford is sitting back on his heels, slouched forward with a hand pressed to his face while streams of blood run down the back of his hand. Stan watches a drop fall to the porch in a splatter before he drops viciously into guilt.

“Stanford, Jesus Christ, I’m so sorry.” He slides up to his brother on his knees, hands reaching out. He pulls Ford’s hand away from his face and falters. There’s blood smeared from Ford’s nose, over his lips, and down his chin beneath the thick lines that still stream from his nostrils.

Stan is frantically moving to pull his shirt off to try and stop the flow of blood when Ford punches him hard in the jaw. He crumples backwards, head spinning. Things start to slow in their reeling only for him to realize that Ford has him in a headlock. He smacks at Ford’s arm as he splutters. When he looks up, Ford doesn’t seem human. Blood falls from his parted lips and lands on Stan’s forehead. He kicks out fruitlessly.

His vision starts to dance almost immediately. He wheezes out Ford’s name, reaches up with numb fingers that slide uselessly across Ford’s blood slick features. Ford shushes him quietly as his body jerks to remain conscious.

“F...Ford, I can’t,” he curls his bloody fingers around Ford’s bicep, “I..I’m gonna...gon..” He can feel Ford breathing slow against his scalp. His eyes droop until all he can see is the dark forest yawning out in front of them and the endless expanse of snow. And then everything is black.

  
  


Ford eases off of Stan’s throat as soon as he stops moving. He’s breathing slow but hard, Stan leaning back onto his lap. He sinks back onto his calves and cradles Stan’s head as he catches his breath. This...was stupid. But so incredibly riveting. He runs his fingertips along Stan’s slack cheek. He looks so still and peaceful; he’s an entire masterpiece of art with Ford’s own blood streaking his features. Ford’s heart stutters in his chest. Stan looks so beautiful like this, comatose and vulnerable. He smooths his fingers over Stan’s cheeks, down his neck and down to his chest.

Stan already seems so much better since Ford has been feeding him supplemental nutrients. Stan’s chest is starting to fill back out and his skin is much more vibrant. Ford smiles. He likes Stan like this. He likes being Stan’s whole world and taking care of him. What he doesn’t like is Stan disappearing for hours and then coming back home with other’s belongings and bruised knuckles. Not to mention being completely on edge.

He scowls at Stan’s slack face and wishes he could pry every secret from the inside of Stan’s skull. Still, even though he is now incredibly aware of how much work Stan still needs, he’s intoxicated with the idea of more moments like this. Stan never fought him when they were younger. Other than a few rare instances that Crampelter and his friends actually managed to hurt him, he’s never seen Stan fight unrestricted and animal-like. He gives a tentative sniff that sends a shocking sting through his sinuses, though it seems the bleeding has stopped. He smiles.

He takes a moment to appreciate the bite of the cold and the sparkling sheen of the snow under the house lights. He feels a little bad that Stan is going to come to freezing, so he shifts until he’s sitting on his butt and can pull Stan up. When Stan is settled against his chest, he presses his lips against Stan’s dishevelled hair.

When Stan starts to move again, Ford rubs his chest and murmurs softly to him until Stan’s fully conscious. When Stan recognizes where he is, he sits up and scoots away from Ford, unsure. Ford lets him and waits. He’s curious what Stan will do now.

“Are you feeling alright?” He studies Stan’s expression as he speaks. There’s a moment of trepidation before Stan lowers his eyes and nods. He doesn’t have to wait long until Stan slides back over to crawl over his legs and wrap him in a tight hug. He slips his arms around Stan’s lower back and returns the embrace.

“I’m sorry, Sixer.” Stan mumbles against his shoulder after a bit. He strokes a hand along Stan’s spine and asks why. There’s a pause before Stan puffs out a heavy breath into his sweater. “Please don’t kick me out.” The words are soft spoken and shaky. When he doesn’t say anything immediately, Stan pulls back with wet eyes.

“I’m serious, Stanford.  _ Please _ . I don’t want to be alone again. I can’t go without you for ten years again.  _ I’ll die _ .” Stan grips him tight around the biceps. He reaches up and wipes a trail of tears from Stan’s cheek. He fights the urge to agree, to confirm that Stan will not survive without him, but he catches himself. Instead, he takes Stan’s bruised hand in his again and turns it so he can kiss Stan’s palm. 

“Can I join you in bed tonight?” Stan’s fingers twitch against his cheek. A tremor creeps up Stan’s spine hard enough that Ford can feel it beneath his fingers. Stan crumbles in front of his eyes, but he has every intention of building him back up better, stronger.

Stan nods and sinks into another hug.

“Let’s head inside. We both need to get cleaned up and you need to get out of the cold.” He nudges Stan back. Stan frowns but moves to stand. Ford takes Stan’s offered hand to help him up. 

He tells Stan to head upstairs and shower. When he gets a pair of wide, uncertain eyes staring at him, he kisses Stan’s forehead and tells him that he’ll be up there to get into bed after getting a drink. This seems to ease Stan who nods and trudges up the stairs slowly.

He locks the door once Stan is upstairs. He waits until he can’t hear Stan’s footsteps to turn and check Stan’s coat. When he finds Stan’s keys, he tightens his fist around them and heads to the living room where he pops out a panel. He locks the keys in the safe hidden in the wall before replacing the panel. He shuts off the kitchen light and stares down at the discarded scarf on the floor with a moment’s curiosity. He pushes the feeling away to deal with later when he can properly get Stan to fess up.

Stan is still showering when Ford heads upstairs and pads down the hallway to his room. He changes into pajamas and cleans his bloodied face in the bathroom. After determining that his nose is not broken, he wanders over to the bed and notices Stan’s copy of  _ Moby Dick _ . The pen Stan’s been using as a bookmark is discarded to the side. He leafs through the book and discovers most of the pages have been dog-eared or scribbled on. He makes a mental note to give the book a quick read through in the future. As he straightens up, Stan wanders into the room.

Ford turns and smiles. Stan has one of his own ragged tee shirts on over a pair of Ford’s sweats. He waits until Stan climbs into bed to slide in beside him. He clicks the lamp off and turns to settle on his side. Stan faces him but there’s a wide gap between them.

He doesn’t invite Stan into his space, nor does he spurn Stan’s company. Instead, he just waits. He waits until Stan cracks and scoots closer so their knees are touching and they’re breathing in each other’s air. 

After Stan gives in, Ford rewards him by shifting over so he can tuck an arm beneath his head and lazily drape the other across his side. He knocks a knee against one of Stan’s and wedges his leg between two warm thighs with Stan’s searching touch following quickly after. Stan butts their foreheads together lightly and folds his arms between their chests. 

Stan breathes out a sigh that Ford mimics. It won’t be long now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find my GF blog at mysterykeebs.tumblr.com to keep up to date with my writing


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> https://open.spotify.com/track/1sKqgCx86UFBqA766qnLUh  
> https://open.spotify.com/track/5STPV0MD1YhJqvgC1MsbmY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: severe depression, attempted suicide, paranoia  
> There is an explicit handjob at the end of the chapter

The first things Stan notices as he rouses awake in the dead of the morning are that he has a full body ache and one hell of a crick in his neck. It takes him a minute to wake up enough to fully register that he’s not the only person in bed and said person’s arm is the cruel source of his neck pain. He blinks open an eye just to make sure that it’s Ford and sighs in relief when it is.

Somehow during the night, they managed to shift into a weird splay of limbs with Stan sprawled out on his stomach across Ford’s side while Ford lies on his back just barely managing to stay on the mattress, one arm half dangling down its side. 

Stan lifts his head from Ford’s bicep, the muscles from his jaw to his shoulder tight from the harsh angle they had been stuck in. Ford continues to breathe quietly through his mouth, his lips parted and dry. Stan frowns. Even with eyesight worth a shit, the mottled, swollen purple reminder of his jackassery is clear as day across the bridge of Ford’s nose. He swallows dryly against a lump in his throat.

Sure, at his unintentionally teary plea to not be kicked out, Ford had asked to share the bed with him for the night, but he hadn’t said he  _ wouldn’t  _ kick Stan out. In fact, Stan realizes with a thrum of anxiety, maybe Ford had just spent the night to pacify him one last time before tossing him to the wind. He’s awake and alarmingly alert as the thought sends a shock through his nerves.

Maybe he  _ should  _ just leave. At least then he might spare himself the added heartache of being rejected again. His breath quickens but a numb veil falls over him, dampening the sting of his panic. 

He shouldn’t have expected things to last forever. He  _ knew  _ he would fuck everything up again eventually, no matter how much time separated him from his childhood and the person he had supposedly outgrown. He has always been and will always be a fuck up.

He’s hit with a sense of clarity as he tries to figure out how to get out of bed without disturbing Ford. 

He wasn’t lying when he said he would die without him. Hell, the lovesick sentimentality was just a bonus admission. He knows he won’t survive once he’s back into the all seeing eyes of the public. He’s banned from more states than he isn’t and there’s always someone who’s going to be looking for him. It won’t be long until his mistakes catch up to him again and finally put him in the dirt where he belongs. He shouldn’t have used Ford to hide and he sure as hell shouldn’t have wasted so much of Ford’s time.

He jumps when something touches his chest. He stares down, bewildered, at six fingers.

“Stanley, breathe.” Ford’s voice is quiet and gruff, but it’s also jarringly loud in the early morning darkness that houses the silence. Stan is pretty sure that he’s going to vibrate out of his skin. Ford isn’t supposed to be awake.  _ Why is Ford awake? _

“Stanley-” Ford sits up and strokes a hand through Stan’s hair to the back of his head. 

It’s so weird to see Ford groggy and sleep mussed and in such an intimate setting. Fingers soothe against his scalp and anchor him; he has one foot still stuck in his body as the rest of him slips into a blurry space of unknowing.

He shouldn’t be seeing Ford like this. It’s a cruel gift in the face of having to leave again, one that claws deep into his chest. He doesn’t deserve to even breathe the same air with someone as perfect as Ford.

Ford says something but it’s lost to him. There’s a beat before Ford shifts again and starts guiding him around until he’s tucked back against Ford’s chest. His eyelids sag and the room blurs into a charcoal smudge. He’s vaguely aware of himself when he feels his arms being crossed over his chest. Then there’s a pair of arms encircling him tight enough to nearly smother him in his own arms. He’s forced into filling his belly with the air he rasps in through his mouth. So much so that he starts to regain awareness of his breathing.

Ford guides him back down from his jittery somersaulting through slow, exaggerated breaths that rise and fall metronomically along his back. He’s completely overtaken by the rhythm of their synchronous breathing and the measured restriction of his body.

He starts inching back towards sleep as his breathing deepens. His head tips as he knocks off. 

“Do you want to go back to sleep?” Ford murmurs the words behind his ear, just loud enough to tug him back to consciousness. He breathes out a garbled noise then nods slowly. 

Ford helps guide him back towards the pillows and covers him with a nest of blankets. He blinks to mismatched beats when Ford strokes fingertips down his cheek. He turns into the touch without hesitation. There’s a seething need behind his eyes that murmurs Ford’s name and screams for more.

As much as he wants to run and self destruct himself into oblivion, he’s never been able to out run his need for Ford. Even now, half broken with the knowledge that he has to leave this taste of normalcy, everything in him writhes and burns to dig deep into Ford and never let go until they’re both sinking into the flames.

“Ford.” It’s not so much a question as a plea, a mantra ingrained on his tongue. Ford hums a questioning sound. When he doesn’t continue, Ford slides down until he’s lying on his side and they’re face-to-face. Everything is so warm, verging on scalding against his clammy skin. He reaches a hand up to smooth over the back of Ford’s, still caressing his cheek. 

The space between them really isn’t much, he thinks. He slides an elbow into the mattress and is nose to nose with Ford easily. Something in him rattles at the proximity. This close, the musky stink of Ford’s unshowered body mixes with the damp heat of sweat and morning breath in his nose. It’s so familiar and foreign and intoxicatingly real. 

Ford doesn’t move away or speak. He watches Stan with lidded, daring eyes that seem even more dangerous shadowed in the dark. It seems too easy to be so close to something so dangerously enchanting, but Stan’s never been one to shy away from danger and he sure as hell has never been able to resist ensnaring himself in Ford’s games of daring. 

Kissing Ford is easy when he convinces himself that this moment in the watery darkness of the early morning is tucked outside of everything that is real and just for them. 

He kisses Ford with all of the desperate helplessness that has always driven him. It’s suffocating with the weight of all of the whispers and disappointed stares, the crossed arms and sharp words of their youth. He kisses Ford with the sting of every kid he beat up for so much as even looking at Ford wrong. It’s aches and seethes, heavy with the decade estranged and the pathetic number of years he’s wanted Ford’s lips against his own.

He’s too worked up and drowning in all of the things he’s choked down for  _ years  _ to even notice if Ford kisses him back. He lets go of Ford’s hand to get a fistful of sleep flattened curls between his fingers. Ford’s lips are chapped and rough against his own, but quickly become damp from his frenzied, sloppy kisses.

He closes his lips over Ford’s until he’s pressing through hot tears and snot and his own trembling lips. Ford gently ushers him back against the pillows when he starts crying too hard to do more than sink his head against Ford’s shoulder. 

Ford spreads out against him until there’s a long line connecting them down their bodies from head to toe. He sputters out a garbled, spitty incoherence in the quiet space beneath Ford’s chin as he tries to figure out if he’s angry that Ford is being so kind or if he’s finally dissolving away underneath the pressure of everything that he’s not and never will be.

He’s consumed and overwhelmed, trapped in the dark with himself inside his head. Ford doesn’t say anything and it’s like he disappears as Stan fights to keep himself afloat. He’s stuck beneath a wall of ice staring himself in the face and it is the most terrifying thing to just be himself in the dark with nothing but his frozen reflection.

It’s still dark when he sputters into consciousness. He drags himself up onto an arm wondering if he had just had the most vivid, bizarre dream. His aching jaw, itchy eyes, and swollen knuckles confirm that something had been real, but he can’t seem to separate the memories and the dreams that sludge around in his brain. Christ, he feels terrible.

He scoots to the edge of the bed and hobbles to his feet. Immediately, his skin breaks out in goosebumps in the cooler air of the bedroom. He rubs an arm absently and eyes his duffel, half empty from his clothes being in the laundry. He could take it and leave, hope that there’s enough in it to get him to somewhere warmer, but he knows it won’t. 

He could take off into the woods and hope to freeze to death before Ford notices, or toss himself into the river down the road. He could do so many things to run from himself and as the possibilities flit through his head, something heavy builds in his gut. No matter what he does, he can’t escape that he’s going to hurt Ford in some way or another and it eats at him. It buzzes and stings until he’s so numbed to his swirling thoughts that he takes slow steps forward and makes his way downstairs because he’s unnervingly aware that his mouth tastes like shit covered in dust.

He doesn’t expect to see Ford in the kitchen. He also doesn’t expect to see that Ford is in the kitchen because he’s cooking.

Stan hesitates in the doorway, completely sidetracked from his previous mission to get water. He stands there trying to decide if he  _ should  _ just go walk out into the woods until Ford notices him and motions him over. He attempts to swallow and doesn’t get past his chalky tongue. He walks over to Ford hesitantly.

“That wasn’t very long. I wasn’t expecting you to wake up for a few hours.” Ford gives the liquid simmering on the stove a slow stir. “How are you feeling?” Stan tries to swallow again without success.

“I’m fine, Sixer…” His voice comes out hoarse and grating causing him to flinch in disgust. Ford turns to raise an eyebrow at him. He turns away his gaze as he catches sight of Ford’s swollen nose.

“Clearly not. Come here.” Ford holds out an arm and nudges him closer. He steps into Ford’s space, caught between the stove and Ford’s body. He stumbles over himself when Ford wraps him around the waist with an arm. He attempts to fix his expression as nonplussed as Ford continues stirring the liquid with lazy circles.

“I know it’s not much, but I was planning on bringing you some breakfast while you were still in bed.” Stan twitches at the thought. Ford sets down the wooden spoon he uses to stir the liquid and reaches across both of them to the counter to slide two mugs next to the stove, stepping Stan back and forth with him as he moves.

Stan watches Ford fill the mugs. They shuffle closer to the sink so Ford can place the empty pot in it. He moves mindlessly as Ford guides them towards the table. Ford only lets him go so he can sit in his usual spot. Ford sets a mug in front of him and then sits himself. 

Stan stares, half out of it, at the plate of toast that sits between them on the table. There are two dishes off to the side as well which he assumes must be butter and jelly from their appearances. He looks up intending to ask what the food is for, but when he does, Ford has a few fingers wrapped around his mug and smiles at him like nothing has happened. Something licks up in him, hurt and angry that Ford can so easily dismiss him. Then something colder creeps along his spine, whispering that this is so normal for him that Ford isn’t even fazed. 

“The hot cocoa might be a bit sweet. I’ll admit I haven’t made it in years.” Ford leans in, startling him back from his thoughts. “It can’t be any worse than what we made as kids though.” Ford pulls back with a chuckle.

Stan looks down into his own mug and sure enough, the liquid is a smooth, dark brown. He hadn’t even recognized the smell of it when he had come into the kitchen. He turns his gaze back to Ford and is met with an expectant expression. He grabs the mug purely out of reflex.

Ford starts rambling about how to finish the portal. Stan’s still too busy slugging through mental fog to follow all of the words, but he’s aware enough to grow rosy in his face because it’s been so long since Ford has gone off on an enthusiastic nerd rant not to flash his intelligence, but purely from a sense of budding excitement.

He must be rusty at shielding his starry eyes because Ford cuts off in the middle of a frenzy of enthused gesturing, lips parted and upturned with an explanation just behind his tongue, to turn a sheepish gaze towards him.

“I’m sorry, I completely forgot about eating.” Ford’s fingers tap restless against his mug with a damp tinking sound and his jaw is flushed, but he continues to smile. Stan nearly chokes on his tongue. There’s a swollen lump of affection in his chest that he hasn’t felt in nearly a decade. He’s red and embarrassed and suddenly flustered under Ford’s gaze. He tries to swallow the realization that he still has a childish crush on Ford that’s much softer but just as suffocating as the burning ache he nurses beneath his skin.

Out of nowhere, everything feels like high school again. He sips his hot chocolate between stolen glances and finds himself surfacing from beneath the stinging layer of ice trapping him within himself. For just a moment, he’s unburdened in the bubble of familiarity. 

Stan eats a couple pieces of toast while he listens to Ford start up again about the portal. After nearly an hour, Ford offers to clean up to let him go upstairs and change so they can continue working in the basement. He obliges reluctantly through the swift return of his loaded thoughts and heads upstairs, eyeing his jacket as he goes.

  
  


**Earlier**

Ford doesn’t expect Stan to kiss him. Of course, it’s somewhat due to his focus being entirely consumed in keeping his hands to himself. Stan has always been a weak spot for him in terms of giving into any and every whim that pops into his head, but with Stan somersaulting emotionally only to steady under Ford’s guidance, it’s too much of a rush to ignore. So, he’s a little caught off guard when Stan kisses him. He’s moreso surprised, however, that Stan jumps the blurry line they’ve always toed.

When they were younger, there were moments like this. Moments when they patched each other up or were otherwise solely preoccupied with themselves when everything would seem to slow and they would breathe each other in or run unsure hands along sharp bones and developing muscles. He hadn’t noticed it until Bill pointed it out, but they had always been so wrapped up in each other when they were kids.

He lets his eyes fall closed as Stan bites and kisses at his mouth. His nose stings from the bumps and nudges, but it only makes the sharp kisses more damning. He doesn’t do more than press slow kisses back to Stan’s devouring lips, though he imagines it doesn’t matter if the frenzy of Stan’s kisses is any indication.

He wants to give into the dark, yawning thing inside of him that urges him to consume every part of Stan wholly. He doesn’t just want the brotherhood and the hope of future guarantees. He wants to claw himself deep into Stan’s bones so they can never be anything less than the perfect union they always should have been. 

Stan’s assault of pressing lips slows and Ford feels the first wet suggestion of a tear against his cheek. He breathes out against Stan’s trembling lips and knows he wants this part of Stan too. He tastes that foul part of him that wants all of Stan’s vulnerability and fears, cold and salty on the back of his tongue. He wants to be the only person Stan goes to when he’s falling apart and the only one that can put him back together.

He presses a hand to Stan’s chest and nudges him back. Stan is unexpectedly compliant and soft beneath his guiding hand despite his stuttering breaths. He pulls the blankets up around Stan’s body and then he lies down too, making sure to connect them at every point so there isn’t any part of Stan that he can’t envelop.

Stan buries his face underneath Ford’s chin and shakes through a few minutes of incoherent sobbing. Ford encircles Stan with his arms, creating a cocoon of heat between them. He doesn’t say anything as Stan’s hiccuping breaths begin to slow. He doesn’t need to. Stan slumps against his arms starts to settle just from their shared contact. Something akin to pride swells in him at the notion that his mere presence can pull Stan back up from the choppy waters of his mind.

He stays there petting fingers through Stan’s hair and over Stan’s blotchy skin for a while after he’s certain that Stan is asleep. He burns with the need to explore every inch of Stan’s body with his hands. It’s been years since he’s seen Stan naked, and it’s obvious that Stan’s body has changed a lot. However, other than the vague impressions he can gather despite Stan’s baggy clothes, he’s not really sure how much  _ has  _ changed. That not knowing scratches at the back of his head insistently. 

He loosens his grip on Stan and pulls back enough to see Stan’s shadowed features in the murky dark. He runs fingertips light over one of Stan’s cheeks, watches for shifts and movement when he traces the parted seam of Stan’s lips. Stan’s breath is hot and damp on his fingers. 

He moves on, traces Stan’s square jaw down to his neck. Something whispers to dig his teeth into the vulnerable flesh of Stan’s throat until it’s covered in bruises and imprints of his teeth. He moves without thought to press his mouth to the underside of Stan’s jaw. He breathes out, catches a wide swath of Stan’s skin between his teeth and inches it tighter until he’s on the cusp of leaving a visible mark.

Stan twitches. Ford waits as Stan shifts. He opens his mouth and releases Stan’s skin when Stan starts to roll onto his back. He’s left hovering over Stan’s slow rising chest with a rush of predatory excitement.

It’s easy to imagine Stan’s hands on him in the dark when Stan is so close. He can see it all in his head: steady hands holding his stuttering hips as he rides Stan in a rush of heat. He knows it would be rapturous. They’ve always been so perfectly attuned to each other. He has no doubt that Stan would pull him straight to the edge of madness with his body.

Stan shudders, pulling Ford from his heated musings. He steadies himself by counting Stan’s breaths. His body aches with the age old desire for Stan that he thought he’d outgrown. It takes everything in him to slip his arm out from under Stan. 

He doesn’t doubt for a moment that Stan wouldn’t feel the same were they ever to actually consider a relationship outside of their shared brotherhood. Stan might not be a genius, but it’s blatantly obvious that they were designed to be perfect for each other. He relishes in the thought. As soon as the portal is done and it’s only the two of them, he knows they will settle into something more intimate with ease. So, for now, he reigns himself in and reminds himself that they have time. It’s just them and the woods until the time comes for something more.

After taking a steadying breath, Ford looks through the dark towards Stan and warms with affection. He might not be able to have Stan now, but he can fix him, spoil him into something splendid like when they were younger.

It’s easy to slip out of bed and head downstairs without waking Stan up. Hell, he’s spent most of his life perfecting his ability to slip away undetected. He figures Stan will be asleep for a couple of hours if left undisturbed which is plenty of time to make something he knows that Stan will enjoy.

  
  


Stan finally caves in under the near constant whispering in the back of his head to leave. He’s back on the floor in the living room attempting to read anything that will take him out of the numb stasis that he’s been in when he catches the door in his peripheral. There’s been an unrelenting storm for the past three days that has completely confined him and Ford inside. Not that it really matters considering he hasn’t been able to find his keys in nearly a week. He’s brought it up to Ford, but Ford hasn’t seen them either. It’s unnerving and has only managed to make him feel more like a caged animal.

He discards the paperbacks he had been thumbing through to stand and creep to the porch door. He turns the knob and pulls it open slowly to peek outside. Everything is covered in an unending layer of knee deep snow. The porch light seems unable to cross an invisible barrier, leaving most of the yard leading out to the woods swimming in a beckoning darkness. His breath stutters out past his lips.

The wind dances around the house and kicks up a whirlwind of snow. It’s beautiful and cruelly enticing. Even just outside of the threshold, he’s shaking from the cold. It’s a biting and unforgiving cold despite the fact that he’s been warming up, no longer pierced by a cold ache that seeped out from within him as strongly as when he first arrived. The devouring night does not care who he is.

It’s that thought that spurs Stan forward. He pulls off one sock and then the other. He strips out of Ford’s clothes until he’s naked and ready to be received into the uncaring arms of the frozen woods.

The shock of cold from wading into the snow isn’t enough to bring him back from the hollow, driving oneness of his thoughts. His body aches to turn around, back to the comfort of being with Ford. But his mind is a thudding, certain thing that strings him along. 

He pushes through the ache and the fear and the frozen tracks of tears that sting his eyes in the wind until he steps past the first tree. Then he continues. He floats along until his body is burning and numb all at once. And then he doesn’t feel anything anymore.

He doesn’t feel when he staggers into the snow, body stiff. To him, he sinks into the warmth of the unending darkness. He’s trapped below a layer of ice but it’s a cocoon of protection rather than the barrier he thought it was. He was wrong to be afraid of that aloneness. He feels at home in the terrible stillness around him. It’s where he’s always belonged, from the moment he came into the world choking the life out of everyone around him. Being swallowed by the dark and becoming just another feature of the landscape is divine and he allows himself to sink into it like it’s home.

  
  


“What do you get when you cross a snowstorm and a severely disillusioned man?” Ford jumps hard enough to bang a knee against the underside of his desk. He sucks in a hissing breath and turns to glare at Bill. Bill ignores Ford’s scowl until he bites out a ‘what’ to get the demon to stop staring at him unblinking.

“A dead brother!” Bill shoots his arms out in exclamation. Ford frowns.

“That doesn’t make sense, Bill.” Ford rubs his knee and closes his journal while Bill tumbles backwards through the air in a fit of laughter.

“No, it doesn’t, does it, IQ? Such is the way of humans, I suppose.” Bill rights himself and glides back over to Ford. Ford  _ would  _ try to ignore Bill and continue working, but Bill’s eye widens and the room brightens from the flickering yellow light Bill glows. “If you don’t want to unthaw Bruiser in the spring, you might want to go and try to catch Little Red before a wolf gets him.” 

It doesn’t matter if Ford doesn’t understand what Bill is cryptically trying to tell him, the deeply unsettling tightness that churns in his stomach from Bill’s piercing gaze is enough to spur him to his feet and towards the elevator. Bill doesn’t follow him. The doors of the elevator slide shut with Bill’s haunting eye still watching him.

Ford nearly sprints up the stairs to distance himself from the buzzing unease that trails him. He cuts through the living room and freezes when he sees the open porch door. There’s a fine dusting of snow that’s been blown up to the threshold of the door. Ford’s stomach drops. 

He gets one look at the pile of discarded clothing on the porch before he’s sprinting through the snow following knee deep tracks half blown away in the wind.

It doesn’t take long to find Stan’s crumpled form in the snow. Ford skids through the snow and drops to the ground, hands reaching out. Stan is cold but not frozen and thankfully still breathing, albeit slowly. Ford digs an arm under Stan’s side and pulls them chest to chest. There’s a brief moment of panic when he thinks he won’t be able to carry Stan back. He suffocates under the weight of fear as his lungs constrict in his chest. He can’t do it, there’s no way.

He cries out Bill’s name only for the word to be swallowed into the howling of the wind. He screams again and again, thinking,  _ needing  _ Bill to materialize like he always does. But Bill doesn’t come. Ford remembers that huge, unreal eye that had made him so uncomfortable in the basement after Bill warned him. He sees that eye in his mind and knows that he has been fooled by something ancient and cruel. 

Ford stands with a broken, guttural wail. He hoists Stan up and digs every finger into the stiff flesh along the backs of Stan’s thighs. His legs shake under Stan’s weight and the cloying grasp of the wind. But he takes a step and then another and another until it’s an automatic movement fueled by the anger of betrayal. His face is streaked with tears that he can’t place as a byproduct of his anger or the wind. But he trudges on and on until the storm tastes like the spray of the ocean and the long buried memory of chapped lips against his own.

Ford is in an absolute frenzy by the time he makes it up the porch steps and back into his house. He kicks the door shut behind him and has to shove down the sensory overload of his freezing body and panicked thoughts. He can hardly pinpoint Stan’s breathing through his own shaking and heaving.

He wants to take Stan upstairs and get him in bed, but there’s no way he’s going to make it up two flights of stairs. All of the angry momentum he’d had walking back through the snow has seeped out of him to leave only the frosty remnants of snow and his aching limbs.

His glasses are fogged to the point that he can’t see a thing, so he shakes his head until they fall from his face and clatter to the floor. Even with his vision blurry, he can see that there’s too much stuff in the living room to waste the time moving things to put Stan there, so he turns and huffs his way past the stairs and down another hall until he reaches the cracked door of an empty room. He knocks the door open with his shoulder and stumbles backwards blindly. 

He hits the floor on his knees hard enough that his teeth rattle but he doesn’t have time to stop and give any attention to the shock of pain. He guides Stan back against the floor boards as gently as he can. As soon as Stan is safely prone and Ford can see him breathing, he stumbles to the fireplace and tosses cut logs in until there’s a pile large enough to heat the room.

A brief and unsuccessful search to find the matches on the fireplace leads to Ford tearing through the house. He tosses things haphazardly in the living room until he realizes that there’s probably matches in the kitchen. He slides around the corner into the hall in his haste and nearly faceplants on the floor, but he keeps going, booking it to the kitchen to fling open drawers and cabinets. He lets out a cry of relief when he finds a box in a drawer.

On his way back to Stan, he spots an open box full of paperbacks. His stomach lurches because those are  _ Stan’s  _ books, but he needs kindling to start the fire. He doesn’t have time to wonder if Stan will forgive him as he scoops up a few of the novels and rushes back.

He gets the fire going after tossing nearly a dozen matches onto the scattered pages he ripped out of the books to stuff between the logs of firewood. The pages catch and smoke for a minute before the logs start to catch and blaze. 

Once the fire starts burning consistently, Ford slumps in relief. With his panic assuaged, his exhaustion weighs heavy under his skin. He turns and crawls to Stan’s side and checks to make sure that he’s still breathing. Satisfied with Stan’s steady but weak breath, he forces himself up and moves to head upstairs. 

His legs nearly give out as he climbs the stairs and then he nearly tumbles as he heads back down them with armfuls of his heaviest blankets. By the time he makes it back to Stan, he’s panting and on the verge of collapse from his numb limbs. He tosses the blankets on the floor and arranges them a little ways from the fire, enough that the cold of the empty room isn’t overbearing.

Trying to drag Stan onto the blankets drives Ford to near hysterics. He ends up sprawled on his side with Stan clutched in his arms as he heaves out choking sobs. It takes seeing Stan’s gray skin in the flickering light of the fireplace to force himself to pull Stan fully onto the blankets. He yanks a blanket over Stan’s body with an uncontrolled jerk through streaming eyes. 

The warm press of the small room would be comforting if Ford wasn’t so distressed. He climbs over Stan and curls against him over the blankets, making sure not to put any substantial weight on Stan’s chest. His own body shakes with the slowly dissipating remnants of cold, but he’s too afraid of putting his own cold body directly against Stan’s to crawl under the blankets too. Instead, he compresses himself against Stan as much as he can, curls his body to generate heat faster on top of the layers of blankets and prays that it’s enough.

Color doesn’t return to Stan’s skin for nearly two days of endless clawing fear. Ford spends most of that time sitting next to Stan and maintaining the fire. He also dribbles water into Stan’s mouth when he becomes lucid enough to swallow. He spends the rest of his time checking in paranoia over his shoulder as he scribbles hasty blueprints into a journal.

The sky is dark and Ford is slumped against a hand, elbow propped against his thigh, and dipping in and out of light sleep when Stan stirs. Ford cracks a heavy eyelid open and decides to get up to get Stan more water. He fills a glass up in the kitchen before scurrying back through the dark halls to the parlor. 

He pauses in the doorway when he sees Stan on his side, dry heaving bile and spit onto the floor. His hand shakes around the glass. He’s by Stan’s side rubbing light circles into clammy, damp skin in an instant. When Stan stops heaving and is just breathing raggedly against the floorboards, Ford guides him back. He sits on his calves behind Stan so Stan can sip at the water without choking. 

Once Stan stops going back for the glass between panting breaths, Ford sets the glass to the side. He brushes damp curls from Stan’s forehead slowly. Surprisingly, Stan weakly presses back into his touch. Ford tries not to let himself get too excited.

“Stanford…” Stan looks lost as his bleary eyes blink open and closed a few times. Ford’s mindless stroking over Stan’s features stills.

“Stanley?” Ford waits a long time before Stan opens his eyes again. Stan seems more cognizant but he looks distraught. Ford helps Stan into a sitting position slowly. He keeps a hand on Stan’s back just in case.

When they’re situated and able to better see each other’s faces, Ford reaches for one of Stan’s hands and strokes a thumb over four knuckles.

“How are you feeling?” He levels his voice so Stan can’t hear him falling apart at the seams. Unfocused, brown eyes meet his own. Stan looks haunted but Ford can’t imagine what by.

“How did…” Stan’s eyes drop, his breathing quickens. “Why did you follow me?” Ford can see Stan’s lips start to tremble. He squeezes Stan’s hand tightly. After a pause, he manages a whispered response.

“You would have died.” Stan flinches and starts to tremble all over. Ford cups Stan’s nape and leans forward to press their foreheads together. They sit like that for a long time. All the while, Stan shakes and chokes out small, rasping sounds. Ford tries to keep his composure, but the emotional freefall of the past few days ends in a sudden torrent of feelings that he can’t suppress. He scoots closer and wraps Stan in his arms. He wants to feel bad for blubbering a snotty, tearful mess against Stan’s shoulder, but he is too caught up in his own anguish and crumbling reality to get the words out.

After they both calm down, they continue to cling to each other like their lives depend on it. Ford squeezes Stan’s nape and presses his lips to Stan’s jaw, the line of stubble there rough against his skin. He brings a hand up and cups Stan’s cheek, pulling back so he can meet Stan’s red, watery eyes with his own.

“You promised me,” he whispers, angry. Stan lowers his eyes.

“Stanford…”

“You  _ promised  _ me, Stanley. You promised that you wouldn’t leave again.” Ford presses his fingers firm into Stan’s jaw and forces him to look up. 

“I...I had to. You’re too good for me, Ford. All I’ve ever done is cheat and steal and lie and hurt you.” Stan strokes rough fingers over Ford’s cheekbone. “I don’t want to keep hurting you.” Ford frowns. And then he smacks Stan hard enough that his palm stings. Stan cups his cheek through heavy breaths but keeps his head dipped and doesn’t say a word.

“You better listen well, Stan, because I am not going to repeat myself.” Ford covers Stan’s hand with his own and leans back in to press their foreheads together until the space between them feels claustrophobic with Ford’s anger. “Walking out into the middle of a snow storm,  _ naked _ , hurt me. I don’t know how you got it into your head that you’re going to, to  _ hurt me _ , but you’re not. I can’t…” Ford squeezes his eyes tight to try and keep his welling, angry tears at bay. 

Stan surprises him with a kiss for a second time. This time, however, Ford doesn’t wait to see what will happen. He kisses Stan back with all of his anger and relief. It’s somehow easier to kiss his frustration into Stan’s parted lips than to say them outloud. Stan kisses him evenly with enough tenderness to rile Ford’s frustration right back up. 

Stan lets out a surprised sound when Ford pushes him back down against the blankets. Ford quickly follows suit to capture Stan’s mouth with his own again. He isn’t sure of anything anymore, but sinking into this scalding place feels real against his skin. Tasting Stan’s dry lips is the proof he needs that he’s tangible and alive. Enough so that he momentarily forgets Bill. He feels the first relief from the wide eyes that have been watching him since he returned with Stan.

He needs it all. He needs Stan and he needs all of those eyes off of him and he needs more time. There’s no more time but in this tucked away pocket of heat and need and the reality of Stan’s reliance on him.

He flings nearly half of the blankets cocooning Stan to the side in his desperate scramble to get more of Stan beneath him. He has enough wherewithal not to expose Stan’s naked body to the chill of the room, but not enough to keep from tearing out of his own clothes before considering the consequences of such an action.

Stan’s eyes widen almost comically when Ford yanks his sweater off and tosses it to the side. Now bared and naked too, Ford lifts the remaining few blankets and slides underneath them to drape himself along the edge of Stan’s warm body.

“Ford, what are-” Ford cuts him off, doesn’t give him the chance to speak the questions he knows are coming into existence. Stan’s hands find his back and grip him tight. He slides a hand between their bodies to try and forget.

He doesn’t expect the choked sound that Stan makes when he wraps his hand around Stan’s flaccid cock. Stan sounds so broken as he whispers Ford’s name over and over. But Ford can fix him. He can fix  _ all of this _ . So he steadies his hand and tries.

He bites at Stan’s lips, swipes his tongue over Stan’s lower lip and tastes all of Stan when he parts his lips. Ford lets each vulnerable sound slip out of him as Stan’s clawing grip slowly lightens to rubbing circles along his spine. Most spots are tender, either from physical sensitivity or the forgotten ache of moments spent worshipping a lie.

Stan’s cock swells hot and heavy against Ford’s palm much faster than he anticipates. He squeezes Stan with a firm stroke and breathes in the shaky groan that claws out of Stan’s throat, deep and reverberating. He twists his hand over the head of Stan’s cock and lets his fingers get slick with precum before stroking back down again.

He loses himself in the concentration of trying to sleuth out what makes Stan react the most. Stan flushes down his chest when Ford focuses his twisting strokes on applying more pressure to the underside of Stan’s tip. He drags a stream of curses out of Stan when he sucks and bites a sharp burst of purple, round and swollen, into the soft skin below Stan’s Adam's apple.

Licking and teasing at Stan’s nipples doesn’t garner a reaction, but nipping across his pectorals does. Ford works his way through leaving a smattering of hickies across Stan’s chest that leaves him breathless as Stan rakes lines up and down his back with the pads of his fingers.

“I’m not gonna be able to handle much more if you don’t move your hand to literally any other spot,” Stan chokes out against his lips when he moves back up to kiss him. Ford already knows, of course. Stan twitches with the overstimulation and looks red enough in the face that, were Ford not the one actively jerking him off, he might be convinced Stan is suffocating.

Stan warns him again as his eyebrows furrow in concentration. He’s trying not to lose himself yet, but Ford wants him to, so he doesn’t adjust his movements. Stan comes quickly after that with a full body shudder and groan of Ford’s name on his lips as he smothers Ford in his grasp. Ford squeezes him loosely, stroking out every twitch and curse until Stan sags, completely spent.

He lets go of Stan’s cock and brings his hand up to curl around the outside of Stan’s bicep. It’s clear that Stan is wiped from the experience as his eyelids droop. Still, he looks more alive than he has for days. 

When Stan trails a hand down Ford’s body towards his own swollen erection, Ford swats him away and sits up.

“You need to get cleaned up so you can rest in an actual bed.” Ford twists around so he can grab his sweater and pull it towards himself. He tries to ignore Stan who sits up as well and presses a firm hand to his spine.

“What happened to you, Ford?” Ford doesn’t reply, just tugs his sweater back over his head and covers every question with the soft knitting. He can feel Stan’s pleading silence like a hand wrapped tight around his body.

“Do you think you can walk?” Ford turns back to meet Stan’s broken expression. When Stan doesn’t respond, Ford leans forward to kiss him slowly until Stan softens and cups a hand to his cheek. Ford pulls back reluctantly to repeat his question only to get a sigh in return.

“Yeah. I think I can walk. Just a bit stiff in the back…” Ford nods and pecks Stan again.

The trek upstairs is slow going after Ford shoves himself back into his underwear and Stan wraps himself in a blanket. Ford can see the strain it takes Stan to hobble up the stairs. His own body prickles with the unseen gaze of a silent watcher that he has to fight through to stay focused on helping Stan. Thankfully, the weight of being watched lessens when they reach the second floor and disappears completely by the time they shuffle into his room.

Ford tucks Stan into the few blankets still left on his bed after realizing that getting Stan into the shower is not going to happen right now. Then he leaves to make his way back downstairs to collect the heavier blankets, his journal, and the discarded glass of water. He throws a glance towards the fireplace to make sure the fire isn’t in immediate danger of setting the house ablaze before rushing back upstairs as the stares grow stronger.

He makes sure to shut and lock his bedroom door behind himself before heading back over to Stan. He dumps the blankets across the foot of the bed then moves to sit next to Stan. He slips the journal between the mattresses after ensuring that Stan is asleep. He then has to shake Stan awake so he can drink more water. Satisfied that Stan is as well taken care of for the moment as he can be, Ford puts the glass down on the nightstand. He jumps when a hand touches his bare leg.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. Are you going to sleep at all?” Stan sounds exhausted. Ford turns his head and can hardly bear to see Stan’s tired features heavy with dark lines in the unforgiving light of the lamp. He lowers his eyes and covers Stan’s hand with his own.

“I, uh…” Ford swallows. His body yearns for the rest, but his thoughts keep circling around the eyes and Stan. He can’t sleep knowing that Stan is in danger and that they’re being watched. He can almost feel the danger of his journal through the mattress. It’s all there. His paranoid ramblings about the eyes and new designs for an invention possible of encrypting thoughts so Bill can’t read them. 

“Stanford, look at me.” Stan pulls Ford back from the teetering edge of his thoughts. He turns his attention to Stan whose expression sags with worry. “Let’s sleep for a little bit, huh? You look like you haven’t slept in days, c’mon.” Ford stares at the space Stan makes for him. He wants to sleep so badly but he can’t trust that something won’t happen if he allows himself to lose that control over his body.

He ends up crawling beneath the covers without even thinking about it, only to realize it after Stan wraps an arm around him and pulls him close. He tenses as his thoughts skitter into a paranoid overdrive. But then Stan kisses the back of his neck and his thoughts start to stumble. He feels safe like this, like the eyes can’t get him here either. 

Something akin to a ‘but-’ crosses his mind but he tamps it down. He reaches out to turn off the lamp with a shaking hand and waits to see if something happens. When the only thing that occurs is Stan mumbling something that sounds like a comment for Ford to relax, he allows himself a breath. 

He’ll just rest there while Stan sleeps, he decides. The dark gives him space to think while Stan’s steadying presence soothes him enough to come up with a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find my GF blog at mysterykeebs.tumblr.com to keep up to date with my writing


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> https://open.spotify.com/track/0XSOLgNqtHZgEEaQyoQctR?si=lIYMeT33TXOIWgxBHFX7BA  
> https://open.spotify.com/track/2Rj9HWaNkUsxdjM2khuqNd?si=0LxUNy7bQVqgxkEzcWZ_8A

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw: hallucinations, attempt at self mutilation, threat of violence, sex, self mutilation scars, drugging

Ford startles awake in the cold silence of the basement. He blinks each eye as he tries to regain himself, still mired in a half sleep. He pulls back from his desk slowly. Papers cling to his grimy skin and fall away, back onto the disarray that covers his desk. He stares down at the mess between his arms until a heavy unease settles along the back of his neck like cool fingers. With a jerk, he frantically searches for a clock.

He slumps back into his chair when the time reads the same as when he had last looked at it. He must have just dozed for a second. Now wide awake from the unexpected shock of anxiety, he stands up and decides to head back upstairs for more coffee before he can slip back into unconsciousness.

The elevator seems to rise more smoothly through the shaft than normal. He frowns and looks at all of the walls before deciding that it must just be a lingering whisper of fatigue in his senses that makes it feel that way. He proceeds to head up the stairs and makes his way to the kitchen.

The kitchen is dark when he enters it. He’s a little surprised that Stan isn’t there or, at the very least, that Stan hadn’t made a pot of coffee before heading upstairs. He tries not to dwell on the irritation that prickles behind his ribs as he goes about starting the coffee pot himself.

He has everything ready for his coffee, the pot half full on the hot plate, when a series of loud thumps come from upstairs. He freezes in place and waits. He waits for any indication that the noises came from Stan, but nothing comes. His skin begins to itch and the familiar ease that had somehow fooled him into dropping his guard skitters out of his body like dozens of ants, leaving him shaking with a freezing fear tight in his chest.

He swallows a mouthful of saliva as he backs up. There’s a knife in the dish rack so he snatches it and holds his breath. He swears he can hear laughter, sharp and cloying, coming down the stairs from the second floor. Everything starts to shift out from under his feet as his breath refuses to sustain him. 

He should be able to see the stairs from the doorway but it’s just an endless tunnel of black as if the kitchen now sits at the bottom of a roving void. The knife rattles in his shaking grip, reminding him of his real body planted firmly in this real space. He breathes out. 

It takes a dozen thoughts to force his limbs to move, to inch him closer to that consuming dark. But he has to go. He has to go because curiosity rips through his veins and it  _ hurts _ . It hurts and he so desperately needs it to not hurt anymore. He wants nothing but that blind curiosity to sink away and never come back, but it’s there and he’s powerless to it. It strings him along like the stupid puppet that he is until he’s nose to nose with the nothingness.

He doesn’t know how he finally manages to take the first step into that void. As soon as he’s into it, however, it’s like everything falls away. He can see the stairs. They’re the same distance from him that they should be considering the layout of his house, but the nothingness stretches on in every other direction. He swallows thickly and turns his head. The kitchen is still right behind him, familiar and real. He could step back. Stay in that familiarity and wait,  _ hope _ that everything goes normal again eventually. But something in his chest tells him that that’s no longer an option. He’s stepped into the unknown and it’s not going to go away no matter how long he clings to an old moment. So, he turns his attention back to the stairs, knife handle stinging his palm from squeezing it so tight, and he takes another step forward.

The dark is quiet and just cold enough to scratch at the edge of his awareness. Every step he takes, the sound seems to creep along the floor for a few feet before being swallowed up. Despite how big the darkness feels, a sense of claustrophobia rips through him. 

He moves as quickly and quietly as he can until he reaches the bottom of the stairs. He doesn’t bother turning around. He isn’t sure what, but something in him just  _ knows _ that if he were to turn now, to stare in the face of that void, he would be lost in it forever. He takes the steps upstairs quickly.

He expects the upstairs hall to be warped somehow to slow his progress to his room, but when he climbs the last step and stares down towards his room, everything looks as it should. Something about that puts him on edge more than the void downstairs.

He starts down the hall at a brisk pace with the knife edging up as he grows more tense. He eyes each closed door he passes with frantic suspicion until he all but sprints the rest of the way down the hall to his bedroom door. He stumbles into his room and slams the door before locking it with a shaking hand.

He rests his forehead to the door and just pants out heavy breaths until he registers the movement and settles back into the reality of his strung out body. He takes a few more steadying breaths before turning around.

Surprisingly, Stan seems to be asleep in bed. Ford watches the slow rise and fall of the blankets over Stan’s body cycle for minutes. Eventually, he calms down enough to walk over to the bed. But he doesn’t sit. The knife is still a clammy reminder in his palm that  _ something _ had drawn him up here and he still isn’t sure what.

He wants to reach out, to touch Stan and be welcomed into his cocoon of safety beneath the covers. His fingers twitch and his body shakes with the need. But he’s so  _ scared _ . He’s scared that Stan won’t let him in or that if he lowers his guard enough to fall into that warmth, that  _ something _ is going to get him.

His panic jumpstarts again, choking him with the possibilities in front of him. He’s so scared but he doesn’t want to be left alone with the possibilities. But then his curiosity rakes at his insides. Tears sting in his eyes because he doesn’t _want_ _this_. He’s scared and he wants to think, he wants space to breathe, but his body moves without him. And suddenly he’s just stuck in his body again, helpless to the burning curiosity that stretches beneath his skin and puppeteers him like a meat suit.

He chokes out a sob because  _ no _ he doesn’t want this. Still, his empty hand reaches for the blankets, for Stan, without any care about what Ford wants. He feels his fingers brush the heavy fabric of a blanket but it’s far away. 

He starts to fall apart because he can’t take it anymore, but there’s no reprieve to be had from himself. He can only follow along and watch as he pulls the blankets back. To an empty space.

He drops the blankets and starts to hyperventilate, stumbling to the floor.  _ Stan should be there! Why isn’t he there? _ The knife skitters across the floor from his collapse and he lunges for it. Everything is cold.  _ Too _ cold and too empty and it’s suffocating him. He slides back across the floor until his back is pressed into the corner of two walls. That’s when he sees him.

Stan. In the bathroom. Standing at the sink with his head bowed between his shoulders. Ford wants to call out. He can’t do this, he  _ needs _ Stan to pull him out like he always has. He tries to open his mouth and speak but something isn’t right. 

He spits out a mouthful of sand onto his lap. 

He chokes out mouthful upon mouthful of sand down his chest and into his frenzied hands. When he jerks his head back up to plead for Stan’s help, dark, wet clumps of sand scratch up his throat. He heaves and gags around the solid retches, spitting out more and more sand until his mouth is burning and cold all at once.

He reaches out, hopes Stan will see him. But Stan just stands there staring into the sink. Ford starts to see stars because he  _ can’t breathe _ . With a horrific jolt, he realizes that he’s going to die there alone and the only person who can help him won’t even know.

He collapses to the floor onto his front in his attempt to move to his knees. His nose cracks against the floor and everything is suddenly red. The sand he retches turns ruddy under the dark torrent of blood that seeps from his nose. A sob rips out of him not from the pain, but his overwhelming helplessness. 

He claws his way across the floor spitting up sand and blood, the knife still clutched in one hand because he’s still so scared. He knows that if he leaves it behind he’ll be able to move faster, get more purchase beneath his raw fingers, but he can’t bring himself to let go of the one thing that could protect him against whatever is still there, lurking, waiting.

He doesn’t get very far. Very quickly, the sand and blood are too much. He tries to pull himself along but his body starts to shut down. He’s going to suffocate. Alone. He lies face down against the floor, blood and tears and sand pooling below his cheek. In his periphery, he can see Stan’s feet. His fingers twitch but he can’t work up enough strength to reach out. He’s swimming in and out of darkness, trapped in his own fear and panic without a single thing to do to help himself.

Something moves just outside of his darkening vision. Fear surges in, fresh and hot, but is quickly overridden by the sudden, blinding hope that it’s Stan and that Stan is going to save him. A moment later, he’s rolled onto his back. It’s only then that he realizes that the sand and blood have stopped. His lips are caked in coarse grains of sand dried into his own blood, but he can breathe again. He chokes out stuttering sobs as a hand smooths over his features.  _ He was so scared _ .

“Welcome home.” The words are almost too soft to hear. Ford struggles to regain himself and focus on the face above him. It’s familiar, though. He tries to say something but only manages to gargle out a sound that burns his raw throat. The voice shushes him before wiping away the hot tears that still run down his face.

He blinks and the face starts to come into focus. He blinks again and again until he realizes that he doesn’t have his glasses on. The face moves closer, seeming to realize his plight, and starts to clear in his vision. 

He wishes he had choked to death on the floor.

He can’t find the air to breathe, let alone to speak. The face that beams back at him nods while he shakes his head.

“Where’s Stan?” He croaks when he finally finds his voice. His vision swims with the too far stretched grin above him.

“Don’t you remember?” It’s his own face and his own voice, but it’s off. He never noticed when it was just him, but staring himself in the face now, he can see all of the  _ wrongness _ so easily. Bill wears his body like it’s slightly too small. Ford didn’t even know it was possible for skin to look so  _ wrong _ stretched over a body.

“What did you do?” he whispers. He starts to feel everything slipping out from under him. Everything feels weird and wrong and unreal. Bill laughs a tittering sound before turning wide, blue eyes back to him.

“What did  _ I  _ do? Oh, Fordsy, don’t you remember what  _ you  _ did?” Bill raises his eyebrows -  _ Ford’s _ eyebrows - impossibly high and jerks his head in the direction of the bed. Ford follows the motion automatically without remembering that he shouldn’t be able to see what’s on the bed a few feet a way. He  _ shouldn’t _ be able to.

There’s a long moment where everything just stops. He stops breathing and they both stop moving and everything just...stops. And then it all starts back up violently. He screams.

It’s hard to conceptualize how much blood the human body holds until it’s almost entirely outside of the body. Ford tears at Bill as he agonizes, screaming and thrashing and sobbing. Bill holds him tight to his chest, but it’s not a comforting touch. Bill squeezes him until his bones hurt and holds him at just the right angle so he can’t look away from Stan’s mutilated corpse strewn about on the bed.

He wants to say that he didn’t do it, to blame it on Bill, who he knows lies. But then he’s struck with uncertainty. What if he did? But he doesn’t remember doing that. He wouldn’t! He  _ loves _ Stan. He just got him back, why would he…? But he wouldn’t...right?

“You  _ are  _ the one holding the knife.” Bill’s voice crackles in his ear, sending immediate shivers of unease over his body. He wants to argue but Bill just loosens his grip and tells him to see for himself. And sure enough, the kitchen knife is still stuck in his white knuckled grip. Only now, it’s covered in blood and so is he.

There’s blood  _ everywhere _ . It’s hot and tacky on his clothes and his hands and even up to his face. He starts to hyperventilate again so he turns to Bill desperately.

“Don’t look at me, Stanford.  _ You’re the monster _ .” And suddenly it’s like something breaks open in his head. He remembers climbing the stairs and going to his room while Stan slept. He remembers tossing Stan out of bed and the resulting thumps of their very brief scuffle. He remembers pulling Stan back into bed and then stabbing him. Over and over and over and over again. And then he remembers standing at the top of the stairs, laughing, before turning and staring down the hall as if the monster were lurking behind all of the doors as he crept back to his room.

“I...I…” So he is the monster. He always had been. He’d started to blame Bill for lying, for manipulating him into doing what he’s done, but it’s always just been him. Hurting Stan as they grew up, hurting Fiddleford once he moved out to Gravity Falls, hurting himself over the years and blaming it on the world, and now, he’s brutally murdered his other half. The better half. The half that held him back.

A cool numb settles over him. Bill continues to grin, but he taps beneath an eye before winking and standing, then walking out of Ford’s sight. Ford just stares at the mess on the bed, unfeeling. It should have been him. He knows it should have been. He always thought his extra fingers and genius made him a freak, but in reality, it had always just been  _ him _ in his core. He is bad. Evil, even. And perhaps his mental and physical oddities were just manifestations of the fact that he does not belong. But...maybe Stan deserved it. Ford might be a monster, but maybe he is only a monster because Stan is so good. And maybe Stan needed to be free of him, so Ford could finally suffer how he always should have: alone and lost and unfulfilled.

He looks at the knife and feels that curiosity twitching beneath his skin. He could never kill himself. No, he’s far too self absorbed for that. But he feels the desire to punish himself split across his skin like an opening into a bottomless chasm. He turns his gaze back to Stan and remembers that unsettling eye Bill had stared at him with on the night Stan ran out into the snow. He thought Bill was a monster then. A terrible, one-eyed demon. Maybe he deserved that. That unsettling physical indication that he’s  _ no good _ . Sure, he has his extra fingers, but those are just abnormal. They make people uncomfortable, but they don’t give off the right kind of message. Or warning.

He eyes the knife again as certainty settles in his gut.  _ An eye for an eye _ , as the saying goes, he supposes. He doesn’t close his eyes as he plunges towards the knife.

  
  


“Stanford!” Stan knocks the knife out of Ford’s hand and struggles to hold him still as he continues to strain like he’s gouging out one of his eyes. It should be a relief that the knife is now hidden somewhere beneath the bed from Stan’s swat, but now he’s terrified that Ford will realize the knife is gone and start clawing his own eyes out with his fingers.

“Stanford, please! Wake up, I’ve got you!” He wedges himself between Ford’s arms and squeezes him around the shoulders. Ford smacks the back of his head like he’s still trying to stab out his eye, but at least there’s a buffer now. 

Stan cradles the back of Ford’s skull from the floor. He tries not to let his weight crush Ford beneath him, but he’s in an odd position and can’t manage to move much to try and shake Ford awake without resting all of his weight on top of Ford’s body.

He trembles through his panic for a few more minutes, too scared to let Ford’s hands get anywhere near his face, and very quickly sinking out of his adrenaline high now that he’s actually awake. He continues to pant even after Ford’s hand stops hitting the back of his head. Ford still doesn’t seem awake despite his open, glossy eyes. 

When he feels like he can risk moving, Stan shifts his weight back onto his knees. He scoops Ford into his arms and holds him against his chest. Ford’s limbs dangle uselessly and his head sags heavy against Stan’s shoulder. He tries to calm his breathing down as he pets through Ford’s wild hair. He tries to remember what to do when someone is really out of it on drugs, but his thoughts are jumbled and he can’t decide if that situation would even apply here.

Ford sucks in a sudden breath and jerks, startling Stan from his thoughts.

“Stanford? Fucking christ, can you hear me?” He pulls back and searches Ford’s features for recognition. He’s about to ask another question when Ford’s eyes shift and look at him. He chokes on his question.

Ford looks confused at first. Then panic blossoms over his face and he starts to thrash in Stan’s grip.

“I killed you! I killed you! You’re-” Ford heaves in a breath, eyes wide, “You’re dead, you’re dead, you’re dead…” Ford fists his fingers into his hair and starts rocking slowly, still mumbling to himself. Stan, confused as high hell, but so torn up with anxiety, can’t think of anything else to do but hug Ford tightly and murmur that he’s alive and real and scared.

It takes forever, it seems like, for Ford to stop babbling and let go of his hair. Stan talks him through it and doesn’t loosen his own grip on Ford until Ford buries his face below Stan’s chin and starts breathing normally.

It takes a while for Stan to swallow the guilt the bubbles in his chest at the thought of what would have happened had he not woken up in time. Eventually, he herds Ford downstairs in order to force him to eat something. Ford jumps at every shadow on the way downstairs, so he keeps an arm looped around Ford’s back and presses them forward.

His first goal after situating Ford at the table is to hunt down every knife in the kitchen and hide them in the living room when Ford isn’t looking. When he’s comfortable with his hiding spot for the knives, he pads back to the kitchen and moves to stand next to Ford. Ford still looks out of it, so Stan strokes a hand through Ford’s hair.

“Can you talk to me, Stanford? How are you feeling?” He rests a hand on Ford’s cheek, thumb stroking lightly over Ford’s skin. Ford turns into the touch slowly, eyes low.

“I have to get back to work…” He has to strain to hear Ford speak. After a moment of puzzling over what Ford actually said, he sighs with a shake of his head.

“Nuh-uh. Not tonight. You’re gonna eat something and get cleaned up before I put you to bed.” He frowns, Ford still leaning heavily into his hand. “I...don’t know what’s been going on with you or why  _ this _ all happened, but you need to take a break, Ford. I’m not losing you anytime soon.” He leans down to kiss Ford’s temple and receives a hum in response.

He isn’t really sure what to feed Ford once he starts looking for food considering they had had dinner a couple of hours earlier. He also doesn’t want to tempt fate by giving Ford something that will make him sick. So, he ends up giving Ford some crackers with a few, thin slices of cheese and hopes for the best. Ford eats them automatically, much to Stan’s relief.

After sitting Ford’s plate in the sink and having Ford drink a glass of water, Stan leads them back upstairs. He wants to get Ford in a bath, but he’s still wary of leaving Ford alone anywhere he can hurt himself, so they both shuffle down the hall to Ford’s room so Stan can find him clothes to wear.

The bath doesn’t take long and Ford sits quietly the entire time while Stan washes him up. After Ford is dressed, they both head back to the bedroom. Stan leads Ford to the bed and has him climb in first before shuffling in after. He tucks Ford beneath the covers and settles in himself. As soon as he has Ford protectively tucked between his arms, he feels Ford nod off and relax. He considers turning off the light, but figures it will help him stay awake so he can keep an eye on Ford.

The next few days are slow and tense with Stan having to keep a constant eye on Ford. While Ford doesn’t seem like he’s doing as badly as the night of the incident, Stan still can’t shake the remnants of fear and guilt enough to stop worrying that Ford will try something again. He has the horrifying revelation that this must have been how Ford felt just after he’d attempted to walk out into the cold and never come back. This only serves to make the guilt bubble back up.

He doesn’t sleep much the first few days. He’s too tense and nervous not to constantly keep an eye on Ford, even when Ford is asleep. He ends up sluggish and cranky, but the anxiety keeps him from slipping back into his own dark recesses as he focuses solely on taking care of Ford.

Ford seems antsy the farther along they get. The end of the year nudges closer and Ford starts spending hours pacing and muttering to himself. Sometimes he looks at Stan and just stares. In moments like that, Ford’s eyes seem heavy and grey instead of blue. Not that Stan minds the attention. He’s pretty sure it should be unnerving to be stared at, unblinking, for such long stretches of time, but whenever Ford gets into one of those moods, Stan can’t help but bask in the attention. It’s all he’s wanted for  _ years _ and now he has it. Sure, he and Ford may not be doing the best and the circumstances surely aren’t to die for, but he likes how intently Ford watches him. Like he’s trying to pick him apart piece by piece in order to solve some big mystery. And by the time Ford seems to come back to himself and appears more lucid, he always beelines for Stan to dig his fingers into and kiss breathless.

They never really celebrated holidays when they were kids. Their parents, namely their mother at the terse prodding of their father, did small things to celebrate Jewish holidays, but their household was never much for celebrating and it always seemed to tense and risky considering the lives their parents had lived before they were born. Antisemitism didn't end with the war and their parents were always wary even as the rest of the world continued on. So, when New Years finally rolls around, it is quite a surprise to find that Ford is planning on marking the occasion as he’s done for years on his own.

Early in the morning on New Year’s Eve, Stan wakes up from his half sleep to Ford sitting up and staring at the window. Worried that he hadn’t woken up when Ford had, he pushes himself up into a sitting position and presses a palm to Ford’s back.

“Sorry, I didn’t feel you wake up.” He presses a kiss to Ford’s shoulder and rests his forehead against Ford’s still warm shirt. That, at least, means Ford hasn’t been up for very long. “Whatcha lookin’ at, Sixer?” He rubs slow circles onto Ford’s lower back as he waits for a response.

Ford doesn’t say anything for a while, just stares absently towards the window. A quick check of Ford’s features tells Stan that Ford isn’t gone like he sometimes is when he stares absently at things, but he’s clearly not fully present either. Stan doesn’t say anything else as he continues to massage his fingers along the soft edges of Ford’s sides and the hard line of Ford’s spine.

“Tomorrow is the new year,” Ford eventually mumbles after a slow, sharp inhale. Stan hums in acknowledgement and kisses Ford’s shoulder again.

“Didn’t think we would make it.” Stan pulls back far enough to see Ford’s profile, his eyes now towards the bunched blankets over their legs. Ford’s eyebrows furrow and he looks distinctly uncomfortable. Stan slides his hand around Ford’s side and mentally slaps himself for the comment.

Ford slumps against Stan as Stan gently guides Ford’s head forward to kiss him slowly. There’s no hurry to the movement as they press their lips together over and over. Stan drops his hand from Ford’s cheek to Ford’s stomach. Ford breathes in slow, regular intervals that push up against Stan’s hand in an unavoidably intimate fashion.

Ford drops his head to Stan’s shoulder with a slow breath. Stan can tell he’s tired. Hell, it’s been weeks since either of them has slept worth a damn, so he isn’t surprised when Ford grumbles something unintelligibly tired but clearly frustrated against his neck.

He mimics Ford’s position, dropping his head to rest on Ford’s shoulder so he can breathe his twin in. Some part of him wants to push Ford back and kiss over his entire body, but the rest of him just wants to wrap Ford up in his arms and stay tucked away in bed forever. He would do it in a heartbeat. He’s also fairly confident that Ford would let him. Other than the antsiness and staring off into nothing, Ford does any and everything that Stan tells him to do. 

Ford eats, sleeps, and cleans all at the behest of Stan. It’s an incredibly intoxicating power rush for Stan, but he enjoys being able to take care of Ford. Of course, in the process, he increasingly ignores his own needs. He feels the drive to simply dissipate from this physical reality and spend the rest of his existence as a ghost taking care of Ford with intense severity. The only reason he ever participates in acknowledging and addressing his own physical needs is because he can’t resist Ford’s sudden interest in being physically intimate. He’s entirely ensnared and very quickly becoming trained into taking care of himself for the reward of Ford’s body against his own. Hence, instead of snuggling Ford back under the warm confines of the blankets and spending the day in bed, Stan untangles himself from the covers and slips out of bed with Ford in tow to go downstairs to make breakfast.

When Stan sets a cup of coffee in front of Ford, Ford tilts his head up for a kiss that Stan hungrily steals before going back to the stove to poke and turn the few sausages simmering in a pan. He refills Ford’s coffee once before their breakfast is ready and he sits two plates on the table with sausage and toast. 

Ford watches Stan carefully as they eat in a familiar silence. Stan raises an eyebrow because it usually takes prodding to get Ford to eat, but Ford takes regular bites that he chews purposefully as he stares. After swallowing a bite of toast soaked in sausage juices, Stan asks if Ford needs something. Ford continues to stare as he finishes his own mouthful of food before speaking.

“I was thinking maybe we could do something tonight. For the new year.” Ford’s expression borders on unreadable. He almost looks blank as he continues watching Stan, but there’s something desperate and heavy in his eyes that Stan shivers in delight at.

“Yeah, sure, Sixer. Whatever you want. What were you thinking?” Stan forks another dripping chunk of sausage into his mouth mindlessly. Ford’s eyes track the movement and linger on Stan’s mouth before moving back up.

“I’ve got some whiskey I never got around to if you’re interested.” Stan’s lips twitch into a grin. He didn’t know Ford drank and he has not had the pleasure of experiencing his twin drunk or tipsy. He briefly wonders if Ford is the type of drunk to flush and get handsy. It doesn’t take much past that mental image for Stan to nod. Ford nods back and goes back to his food after a momentary pause. 

Ford still stares, but now Stan stares back as well. His entire body is starting to prickle in anticipation at the possibilities for their evening together. Since the night Ford had given Stan a handjob on the floor of some back room, they haven’t made it back to doing anything overtly sexual, but Stan has thought about it often ever since. A lifetime of pining after Ford has finally swallowed him whole at the possibility of having Ford in  _ every _ way despite the whispered voice in the back of his head that tells him Ford will never want him past what they’ve already done.

They finish their breakfast in a silence that morphs into something heavy and dripping with anticipation. Stan does the dishes and then ushers Ford upstairs to shower and change. Ford insists on Stan bathing him instead, which Stan doesn’t refuse. 

It takes nearly an hour to even remotely wash Ford because as soon as Ford is settled back into the steaming water, he pulls Stan into an even more heated kiss. Stan ends up half leaning into the tub so he can mouthe along Ford’s neck and collar before chasing Ford’s lips again. He manages to keep his hands to himself through the entire endeavor, however, and helps Ford out of the tub once the water is mostly empty of water.

It takes another fifteen minutes before Ford attempts to get dressed. Stan wraps Ford loosely in his arms from behind, fingers dipping just beneath the seam of the towel to press into the soft warmth of Ford’s stomach as he kisses the back of Ford’s shoulder. They stand and sway slightly in the enclosed warmth of the bathroom until Ford has mostly air dried and Stan’s lips are damp from being pressed to wet skin for so long.

Eventually, Stan lets Ford go so he can slip into clean clothes. Ford nudges Stan towards the shower once he’s dressed. Stan still doesn’t like leaving Ford alone, so he nearly refuses until Ford asks to stay in the bathroom, saying he would prefer to wait there until Stan’s done. Stan agrees, but still takes the fastest shower he can so he can get back to his constant vigil of Ford.

The rest of the day inches on uneventfully. They each take up their seats at the kitchen table as they take turns refilling their mugs with coffee. Stan flips through a book for most of the day, getting sidetracked staring at Ford the rest of the time. Ford’s hair is soft and curls where it frames his face and neck. He has to stop himself from reaching out to run his fingers through the strands multiple times, not wanting to bother Ford who works diligently and silent next to him. By the time it’s edging towards eight o’clock, however, Stan is high strung and completely unable to focus on his open book.

He stands to make dinner to try and distract himself. It helps, somewhat, to dig through cabinets and the fridge to find anything appetizing. When he settles on using the soft remainders of an old bag of potatoes for mashed potatoes and warming up a can of corn, he is finally able to pull his thoughts from the temptation of Ford.

He starts by pulling out a small pot for the corn and a larger pot to boil the potatoes. Then he busies himself over the trash can peeling the soft, wrinkled skin off of the potatoes. The repetitive give of potato skin beneath his knife - stealthily taken from the stash in the living room - lulls Stan into somewhat of a trance. Every movement is automatic and he sinks into the unthinking pure automation of his body so far that he barely notices when he slices the pad of his thumb against the knife. There’s a brief jolt of pain that’s more noticeably surprising than anything. 

It takes a moment for him to think to move. His thumb drips heavy drops of dark blood into the trash, the potato still held loosely in his other hand. He draws in a breath and it’s like his body moves on its own towards the sink. Before he can rinse his hand, however, fingers curl around his wrist and tug his hand back.

“How did you manage to cut yourself so badly?” Ford’s eyebrows are furrowed again, but his expression borders on exasperated rather than uncomfortable. Stan watches dumbfounded as Ford licks a stripe over the bleeding cut - Stan can’t tear his eyes away from the runny line of red along Ford’s tongue as it draws back - before he wraps his lips around Stan’s thumb. Stan still holds the knife between numb fingers which leaves it unnervingly close to Ford’s jaw. Stan swallows thick as his gaze shifts from the knife back to Ford who watches him with lowered eyelids and a fixed gaze.

“...I was cutting the, uh…” Stan gestures weakly with his left hand, still holding the half peeled potato. Ford doesn’t turn his eyes away at the movement. Stan opens and closes his mouth feebly.

When Ford pulls back, there’s a dark tint along the wet seam of his lips. The cut immediately pools with blood again and Stan can’t help the thought of running his thumb along Ford’s parted lips or the smear of blood that he would leave if he closed his hand around Ford’s throat.

Stan is so wrapped up in the eroticism of Ford’s expression that he doesn’t notice Ford taking the knife from his hand until Ford’s eyes finally turn away to examine it. Stan’s arousal flips so quickly into panic that he nearly cuts himself again when he fumbles an attempt to take the knife back. Ford’s eyes turn back to him with such a piercing intensity that he immediately stills, hand half curled in the air between them.

“It’s dangerous to try and grab knives by the blade, Stanley. You should know better.” Ford says the words in such an enticingly deep rumble. Stan just stares dumbstruck at his twin. When Ford takes a small step forward to edge into Stan’s space, it’s with the air of a predator. Stan looks between each of Ford’s blue eyes and it is the worst possible mistake he could have made.

Stan tries to swallow or breathe or say  _ anything _ discernable, but Ford nudges him back against the counter, knife still visibly held up in his left hand and a dangerous glint in his eyes. Stan doesn’t even contemplate knocking the knife away or trying to leave his cornered position. He probably couldn’t even if he wanted to because his joints are locked up and there’s a hard rush of chills that starts down his back, crawls over his ribs, and then down through his inner thighs. It’s a deep, body jerking chill that leaves Stan at a loss for how to breathe and catches Ford’s attention.

“I’m not making you nervous, am I?” Ford smiles softly, but it’s infinitely more threatening than anything else he could have done. Including pressing the edge of the knife beneath Stan’s jaw.

Ford pauses, seems to be waiting for some kind of response from his action. Whatever Ford is waiting to see, it’s clear that Stan shuddering out a breath and tilting his head was not even a considered reaction. 

Stan doesn’t know why he shakes with a stomach twisting arousal. He knows he should be scared shitless because Ford tried to stab out his own eyes not that long ago, so there’s no doubt that if he wants to so lovingly try the same thing with Stan, he isn’t going to falter. But something about the adrenaline of being threatened mixing with his arousal and his bone deep trust that Ford is perfect and knows best leaves him shaky with anticipation and excitement. It doesn’t help that Ford stares at him, wide-eyed with the same intense ferocity that he has had for the past week every time he stops what he’s doing to just watch Stan. And just like then, Stan absolutely delights in the intent attention focused solely on himself. Hell, if he’s going to get murdered by his twin on New Year’s Eve, he’s going to at least relish the fact that after 26 years, he’s going to die as the sole object of Ford’s attention rather than in a ditch in South America or along some highway in the States.

Ford licks his lips and seems to consider for a moment. 

“You’re not scared?” Ford asks, voice low and curious. Stan flounders for words through the fog of emotions clouding his thoughts.

“Only that I might die with the hard on of all hard ons,” Stan rasps back. They watch each other then. It’s calculating and familiar in the way that they’ve always sized each other up before hurling themselves headlong into each other.

The moment the knife is no longer a sharp threat between them, Stan scrambles forward to press desperate kisses against Ford’s lips. Ford blindly tosses the knife towards the sink before reaching up to claw his fingers into Stan’s hair. Stan pants out a hot sound of surprise at the sting in his scalp, giving Ford room to nip his upper lip and slide their tongues together.

How they manage to make it upstairs without falling down the stairs or tripping is nothing short of a miracle. By the time they make it to the bedroom, they’re both so desperate and breathless they nearly collapse on the floor in their attempt to make it to the bed.

Stan presses Ford into the mattress as he fights the urge to clamp his teeth down into Ford’s flesh just to see what reaction that would illicit. His hands slide quickly over Ford’s body, dipping beneath Ford’s clothes to stroke against hot skin and sharp bones. He presses his palm into Ford’s stomach on the way towards Ford’s pants when Ford hooks a leg around his waist and flips them. Stan chokes on his breath at Ford’s wild appearance.

Stan rolls his head back into the mattress with a jagged groan as Ford’s hands slide beneath his shirt and along his torso. He  _ hates _ it. He hates that Ford is touching his disgusting body and looking at him, but he’s so desperate for the way his nerves burn at being touched. Everything in him screams to push away and to push into the touch. It’s maddening and squeezes in his chest like a tight fist, but that only makes the rush more heady as Ford dips down to bite sharp bruises into his skin.

“Yes, yes,  _ there,  _ fuck that hurts-” Stan fists a hand into Ford’s hair, chest heaving into the teeth that dig into his pec. Ford’s hands grip his sides hard enough to bruise but it’s still not nearly tight enough to keep Stan from rolling up against Ford and letting his legs bunch and splay on either side of Ford’s body.

Stan’s eyes are clenched shut either to keep the hot prick of tears at bay or because seeing Ford look nearly feral as he ravages Stan’s skin is too much to take in while also experiencing the bliss of being ravaged. Or possibly both. Either way, Stan heaves out choppy groans and reflexive keens loud enough that his ears burn in embarrassment. By the time Ford pulls back so he can slide back up Stan’s body, Stan is a motley canvas of red and purple and blue.

Everything hurts so  _ good _ . Stan melts into Ford’s panting kisses as his body aches and tingles in the afterglow of stinging pain. His heart is beating hard enough in his chest that he’s almost certain it’s going to just give out at any moment. This doesn’t seem to bother or at least deter Ford who grinds into Stan purposefully. He licks into Ford’s mouth, breathes in the sharp air between them as they pull apart and press back in again more and more frantically.

Stan is starting to become crazy in their movements. He’s strung out and wild beneath Ford to the point that he’s lost in the thrumming need for something more, something  _ primal _ and consuming that it starts to eat him up because he can’t put it into words. He tries. He tries as he cries his need against Ford’s lips in grunts and half breaths. He tries to spell it out with his scrunched expression and rapidly blinking eyes that he tries so hard to keep open through the crash of sensations so Ford can see it, read it in his wide pupils and glazed sheen. 

They might not have ever had a telepathic twin connection, but he tries so hard to dig it into Ford’s skin and Ford just smiles and licks his parted lips that dry too quickly because he’s still panting through them. Ford smiles because he  _ knows _ and Stan can read it plain as day in the look that Ford gives him that Ford not only understands Stan’s desperate non-verbal request, but that he can decipher what it all means for the both of them.

Stan sinks heavily into the mattress when Ford pulls away to stand and grab something from a dresser across the room. His body aches and thrums with a high level of energy he didn’t even know he could still experience. He’s intoxicated with his own need not only for release, but the bone deep need he never even realized he had to let Ford take up the reigns and be completely in control.

Ford crawls back onto the bed with much more weight than Stan expected. A moment later, light from the bedside lamp fills the room and Stan stares, bleary eyed, at Ford like he’s a stranger. He almost is with the way he stalks himself back between Stan’s legs, eyes dark and breathing steady. He’s so far removed from the image Stan has carried with him for years of Ford in high school as a sweaty, anxious nerd that only butt heads with their peers when Stan was involved. 

Here, though,  _ now _ , Ford moves with real weight and purpose. Ford doesn’t hesitate as he curls fingers beneath the waistband of Stan’s borrowed sweats and pulls until the material is bunched at Stan’s knees. And Stan would feel embarrassed about it all if the look Ford gave him didn’t so clearly spell out that Ford would devour him if given the chance. It’s so much easier when he can see Ford  _ needs _ him, not just wants him. Even if that need burns and threatens to consume Stan in flames.

Ford bends each of Stan’s legs, one at a time, and pulls the sweats off to leave Stan naked from the waist down. Stan wants to sit up and tear his shirt off so things can move along, but he’s paralyzed beneath Ford’s hungry gaze as he slowly rolls forward onto his knees and stretches out above Stan. Stan keeps still, eyes darting between Ford’s eyes and his parted lips. When Ford finally reaches for the bunched hem of Stan’s shirt, Stan forces down every impulse to move on his own accord so he can be manipulated and moved by Ford’s guidance.

Having his shirt pulled off and tossed to the floor leaves him shaking in tense anticipation after Ford so slowly and painstakingly made Stan move. There was even a long moment where Stan sat, arms above his head and shirt pulled up so he couldn’t see that left him breathless and jittery. And now it’s just him, naked and waiting as Ford drinks in the sight of him with his eyes.

Stan doesn’t move when Ford pulls his own shirt up and over his head. While Stan has seen Ford without a shirt countless times since that night he woke up after the storm, it’s always been in an environment of anxiety and caretaking. He hasn’t tried to pry the reasons for why Ford looks the way he does under his clothes because he’s been afraid and Ford hasn’t made any move to explain. Even that first night, it had been pure desperation and need that led to Ford even giving Stan the first glances. But now, with Ford watching him with hooded eyes and half upturned lips, Stan knows answers won’t be forthcoming. 

Right now, Ford holds the power and it’s clear that the only reason Ford is allowing Stan to see him like this without the uneasy cloud of desperation and guilt that kept Stan from asking questions before is that Ford knows he won’t be questioned. And he wants to give a show. So, Stan won’t say a word because Ford has him wound up like a spring and giving him more access to Ford’s body is pushing him to the absolute limits of his self control.

Ford slides his hands up Stan’s inner thighs slowly. Stan sucks in a hitched breath as a painful wave of chills bites into his skin. He can feel himself leaking against his stomach creating a damp patch against his lower belly. At this point, he would be willing to bite a bullet if that meant Ford would just touch him. He mutters as much and gets a rumbling chuckle in return. Ford assures him that there are no guns in the house which only serves to make Stan fall back against the mattress with half a mind to cry at the implication.

Stan is so busy lamenting that he’s going to be stuck in this miserable state of need that he doesn’t register Ford tucking himself between Stan’s thighs until there’s a shooting pain up one of his inner thighs. He hisses and jolts up onto his elbows as Ford sucks the spot into his mouth with less teeth and more kneading tongue. It still stings like hell but it also makes Stan’s cock twitch and his stomach clench in prickling pleasure. 

Ford releases the skin of Stan’s thigh with a wet pop before flattening his tongue against the pulsing hot bruise and licking the sheen of spit away. When he moves to Stan’s other thigh - nosing higher up into the sensitive flesh - Stan spits out a stream of curses when the action is mostly teeth sinking deep into his skin without reprieve. He can’t and doesn’t try to stop the tears that stream down his cheeks. His entire body is on edge and tense from the pain but you couldn’t pay him to make it stop.

After Ford pulls back from the newest throbbing bruise, Stan shudders and slumps into a half relaxed state. His eyes are still watering when Ford presses a hand to his chest and pushes him back. He closes his eyes and counts his breath as he finally fully relaxes. He hears a quiet click and then the sound of something slick but keeps his eyes closed. At the slow draw of a finger over his entrance, he sucks in a ragged breath through his mouth and opens his eyes.

Ford kneels between Stan’s thighs with a leg resting against the outsides of both of his legs. As he pushes a slick finger slowly into Stan, Stan bumps his knees out as far as they’ll go. A fully body shudder racks through Stan as Ford’s first finger slides into him. It’s strange but entirely welcome as his pleasure addled body begs for more stimulation. There’s only a brief moment before Ford pushes in a second finger and Stan starts to break down.

Stan claws his fingers into the blankets to keep from giving himself the few pumps he needs to reach orgasm. He starts to shake from the strain of trying to force himself to relax and not end everything too soon. He squeezes his eyes shut again and tries to think of anything other than the heavy knot of pleasure in his stomach that he wants to fall into.

Stan lets out long drawn moans that rise and fall with the movement of Ford’s fingers sliding in and out of him. He can feel Ford pressing, aiming for something that pushes up towards his lower belly. He shudders with the dual stimulation of his entrance around the base of Ford’s fingers and the firm pressure of movement that roves inside of him.

He moves his arms above his head, half covering his face as he grips the pillow behind him. Ford pushes in another finger and Stan practically whimpers. But the additional finger apparantly gave Ford more room to maneuver his hand because there’s more but there’s also suddenly  _ more _ . 

Stan is drowning in the heat that rolls off of his body. Ford’s fingers press with purpose and everything starts moving much  _ much _ faster towards Stan’s looming release. He curses and shoots a hand out to dig fingers into Ford’s arm. His eyebrows are bunched but raised and he struggles to keep his eyes on Ford instead of rolling back as pleasure mounts inside of him.

“Too much it’s-  _ too much _ ,” Stan warbles. Ford doesn’t still in his movement, but his fingers do slow and rub achingly drawn out circles that keep Stan on the edge of idle pleasure and the build up to orgasm. Stan pants hard as he tries to steady himself. Ford looks like he’s amused at how he’s managed to drive Stan up a wall.

After a few more agonizing rubs from Ford’s fingers, Ford pulls his fingers out and Stan groans. Stan wants to protest because it felt  _ amazing  _ to get finger fucked by Ford, but Ford pushes down the waistband of his own bottoms and that effectively renders Stan speechless.

Stan watches with wide, glassy eyes as he gets a good look at Ford’s flushed red cock. Unsurprisingly, it looks very similar to Stan’s own but that doesn’t stop the hot rush of excitement that bubbles in his chest. He watches intently as Ford opens a small bottle and pours what must be lube into his hand. Stan swipes his tongue over his lower lip as Ford wraps himself in his hand and pumps himself a few times until his cock is slick and shiny in the low light.

Stan is not expecting Ford to settle into place with Stan’s legs over his shoulders. Stan almost protests because he is pretty sure he is not going to be able to bend that way, but Ford pulls him down the bed until Stan’s lower back is off of the bed and he’s at an angle. Then Ford pushes in without warning and any protest Stan had had dies on his lips as he sinks back onto the bed.

Stan has to close his eyes in order to focus enough to breathe because  _ holy fuck _ this is it. They’re finally doing this and Stan is thrumming with overstimulation and arousal. When Ford bends forward, taking Stan’s legs with him, Stan’s eyes shoot open. He chokes out a ‘what the fuck’ when his body folds without protest and Ford settles deeper inside of him. By the time they’re nose to nose, Stan’s eyes are rolling and Ford still hasn’t even technically done anything but shift their positioning.

The first thrust rattles every bone inside of Stan’s body. Ford’s weight forces the air straight out of him with the hard movement. His hands scramble to find purchase on Ford’s biceps as Ford sets a pace. Stan thought that Ford’s fingers had been too much, but he almost wishes they were still just using fingers because he can’t form a single thought. His body is pushed just past the point of casual pleasure, but the way he’s tucked and flattened beneath Ford traps him from falling straight into his orgasm.

He starts to rasp Ford’s name between them, trying to figure out what he needs Ford to do. Ford dips his head and kisses Stan, nips one of his lips then pulls back with a grin that’s all teeth. Stan feels utterly, deliciously helpless in that moment.

When Ford knocks one of Stan’s legs from his shoulder, Stan lets out a surprised sound that drops into a rumbling groan that claws up from deep in his chest. Ford presses forward more, chest to chest with Stan and Stan suddenly has one knee by his face and he’s so confused because he didn’t know he could  _ do that _ but the shift makes Ford’s heavy, quick pace  _ perfect _ .

Stan writhes as his pleasure jerks up from its stasis and climbs towards its peak. He wraps Ford tight in his arms and digs fingernails into his back as he throws his head back. Ford growls out a noise and grunts with his frantic pace. Stan half manages to bite out a ‘fuck’ before his body clenches and he sobs out a stuttering moan. Ford doesn’t relent as he fucks into Stan with abandon.

As soon as Stan’s pleasure crests and starts to fall again, he becomes aware of the fist in his hair that feels like it might tear out a clump. His eyes burn from the pain and his body jerks through overstimulated bursts of discomfort as Ford’s jaw clenches. Stan reaches for Ford’s face and cups the flushed, sweaty skin beneath a palm. Ford’s eyes are nearly swallowed by his pupils and he stares Stan down with such an intense ferocity that Stan could be swallowed alive in that moment and be perfectly content.

“You better fucking cum in me, Stanford, I swear I will  _ kill you _ if you do not fucking cum in me right now I fucking, I-fuck-” Stan’s body locks up as the overstimulation becomes unbearable. He hisses against Ford’s lips and accidentally knocks their foreheads together painfully when he twitches in Ford’s grip. Ford manages half a dozen more thrusts before he sinks his head against Stan’s shoulder and bites so hard that Stan sees stars from the pain. And then Ford bites harder and his hips still but press hard into Stan’s aching body. Stan feels the quick tremble that must be the end of Ford’s orgasm and then Ford releases his hold on Stan’s shoulder with a groan.

It takes a long time for either one of them to move. Stan tries to regain himself through the buzz of sensations that still rack through his body while Ford catches his breath. By the time Ford starts to pull back, Stan is pretty sure he is going to pass out or die because his body still hasn’t calmed.

Ford pulls out slowly, leaving a trickling warm sensation that makes Stan shudder. Ford eases Stan’s leg off of his shoulder before sitting back on his calves and brushing sweaty strands of hair from his forehead.

“I think ‘m dying,” Stan mumbles into the buzzing quiet. Ford watches him for a moment, expression unreadable.

“How about that whiskey? Might calm you down.” Ford rubs a hand absently over Stan’s hip that aches from having been folded up for so long. Stan nods and starts to sit up only for Ford to stop him with a palm and sharp look.

“I’ve got it,” Ford says. Stan frowns but doesn’t move. He doesn’t want Ford wandering around downstairs out of sight. But he also doesn’t want to get up because he’s sure that if he does, he will probably collapse and die. Ford seems to read him as he considers.

Stan can’t say no when Ford shifts forward to kiss him so softly. The action is so ridiculously soft and careful after their unhinged fucking a moment ago that Stan simply melts when Ford digs the blankets out from under his overheated but cooling body to tuck him in.

“It will only be a second,” Ford says before climbing off the bed. He starts to turn but seems to think better of it because he leans down to kiss Stan long and slow before finally turning and padding towards the door.

Stan listens as Ford’s footsteps fade down the hall. He only manages a moment beneath the covers before his thirst overtakes him. He climbs out of bed and walks into the small bathroom to chug a few glasses of cold tap water before he feels normal enough to climb back into bed. As he sets down the cup on the sink again, he catches his reflection. He jolts with the memory of the first and only other time he had looked at himself in that mirror, but he stays grounded and secure in his body.

He sags in relief as he eyes his reflection. His eyes tick between the dark bruises along his chest and stomach, buried beneath coarse hair. Then his gaze tracks up and he spots his shoulder that Ford bit. The mark, similar to the hickies, is dark in color. There are clear imprints of Ford’s teeth with a wide ring of hazy red that circles over the curve of his shoulder. Pressing lightly with his fingertips, Stan shivers with the bite of pain the action elicits. He’s surprised Ford didn’t draw blood, but he’s kind of enamored with how deep the mark goes. It feels good and possessive in a way that muddles his thoughts with something dark and probing.

When he’s satisfied with looking at his bruises, Stan climbs back into bed and fingers lightly at his sensitive stomach and flaccid cock. Even now, he feels his skin buzz with the after effects of overstimulation. It briefly crosses his mind that he doesn’t want these feelings to go away. He wants an imprint of how good it feels to have Ford use his body so roughly in his bones and muscles forever.

By the time Ford returns with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses already filled with the strong liquid, Stan is halfway edging into a sated sleep. He rouses when Ford sets the bottle down and sinks onto the edge of the mattress.

“How are you feeling?” Ford asks as he hands Stan one of the glasses. Stan makes room for Ford and sits up against the headboard with a groan that makes Ford’s lips twitch up.

“Sore as hell but completely satisfied.” Stan gives Ford a lopsided grin and a poor excuse of a wink before taking a sip of the whiskey. He scrunches his nose at the strong, burning taste. He forgot how terrible straight whiskey was.

Ford shifts underneath the covers and settles in next to Stan. Stan grumbles about Ford still wearing his pants but easily leans into Ford who rests a hand on Stan’s thigh.

“You look wrecked,” Ford murmurs a few minutes later as he lowers his own glass from his lips. Stan huffs a laugh and groans at the stiffness settling into his lower back.

“I  _ feel _ wrecked. Don’t think I’ve ever been fucked so good…” Stan mumbles the last part onto the warm skin of Ford’s shoulder. Ford hums a sound in response. 

There’s another few minutes of quiet as they sip at their drinks. Stan gets through his much faster than Ford, wanting to chase the buzz of alcohol before he inevitably passes out from such a good romp. Ford snorts when Stan holds out his glass to be refilled but grabs the whiskey and tops his glass off without comment.

“Hey Stanford?” Stan asks as he settles back against his twin’s side. Ford hums a sound and raises an eyebrow. Stan licks his lips, dry from the alcohol, and tries to find the nerve to ask his question. “I’ve been meaning to ask...I mean, you know, what’s up with all of that?” Stan waves a hand in Ford’s general direction. Ford’s eyebrow remains quirked.

“All of what?” Ford’s response is even, but Stan catches the short twitch of his lips. Ford’s fucking with him. Stan frowns and huffs, sipping his whiskey again. When he turns to level Ford with a frustrated look, everything starts to swim around him.

“The  _ scars _ , Stanford. And the, the tattoos or whatever. Just,  _ that _ .” Stan knocks the back of his hand against Ford’s chest with a lot less grace than anticipated. He frowns because it hasn’t been that long since he’s drank, so why is he getting muddled so quickly?

Ford looks at Stan’s hand then laughs out a breath as he sets down his glass of whiskey. Stan grumbles when Ford takes his as well to set to the side. Stan starts to pout as he very quickly falls into a warm hazy hum of intoxication.

“Do you really want to know? You might think differently of me after.” Ford shifts and tugs the blankets up so he can reposition himself in Stan’s lap. Stan would be giddy at the chance for a second round if he weren’t so far gone. So, instead, he smiles lopsided and nods as he settles clumsy hands on Ford’s hips. Ford nods and takes one of Stan’s hands in his own to slowly trace up various scars lining his torso.

“After I graduated and got my grant money, I moved here.” Ford guides Stan’s fingers over a thick, pink scar over his ribs. “I purchased this land and had this research facility made. Doubling as my home, of course. For six years I worked here alone, studying the abnormalities and strange happenings in this town.

“Two or so years ago I stumbled upon a cave. Inside, there were drawings, depictions of an ancient entity. Stupidly, I read the incantation there and summoned the beast. He promised me knowledge and understanding of the weirdness in this town. Told me that, with his help, I would be able to access the dimension that has been spilling weirdness over into ours for millennia. And I believed him.

“I immediately got to work and called up an old college friend of mine who I knew could help me build the machine. He came and we worked for two years. During that time, I worked with the beast. I started to revere him. Worship him. He asked for tributes and offerings that I gladly gave.” Ford sniffs and climbs off of Stan’s lap. Stan watches him, groggy and disappointed, but Ford settles on the edge of the bed with his back towards Stan. Even half out of it, Stan immediately catches the dark lines of red spilling jaggedly over the tattoo there.

“Most of it was physical offerings. Pain and scars that would never fade. He said it was to prove my loyalty, to proclaim my dedication to knowledge. But he also asked for other things. Tattoos. Some I did myself, poorly of course, where I could reach.” Ford turns to grab Stan’s hand again and rests it over faded, blurry black symbols on the outside of Ford’s bicep.

“Others he did, regardless of if I thought I could reach them.” Ford moves Stan’s hand down to a tattoo on the back of his ribs of nonsensical glyphs. “And finally, he asked me to do a larger piece. I couldn’t do it on my own with or without him, so I had to go out to get it. I tried to get my assistant to help once, but he refused. Told me there was something deeply unsettling about it that he wanted no part of.” 

Ford lets out a slow breath as Stan moves his hand to the large blackwork piece stretching across Ford’s upper back. There’s a large circle enclosing a triangle with an eye - something weirdly familiar, Stan notes through his bleary eyes - filled with symbols. Beyond that, weird amalgamations of triangles with more symbols and glyphs that create a tight myriad of shapes all built from triangles.

Ford doesn’t say anything else but Stan hardly notices. He’s too busy tracing a finger across the scratches he had given Ford. Scratches that dug a line straight through the eye of the triangle. With a heavy sigh, Stan moves his hand away from the blinded triangle to touch and stroke the other scars along Ford’s back. The ones here, unlike the ones lining Ford’s arms and sides and chest, are all entirely thick, raised scars that tell of serious wounds. They also all curve in similar ways, as if Ford had ripped lines into himself as quickly as he could from the limited reach he would have. Stan didn’t like that. It was less meticulous and planned, more frantic and careless.

“‘ll kill ‘em…” Stan slurs as he attempts to pull Ford back. Ford leans back at Stan’s fumbling hands and settles against his chest silently. Stan’s head starts to loll, but he fights to keep himself awake. He noses into the still damp curls near Ford’s temple with a huff.

“It’s okay, Stanley,” Ford smooths his knuckles along Stan’s cheek, “It will happen soon enough.” Stan tries to swallow around his thick tongue. His head falls to Ford’s shoulder without his meaning to. Ford starts to shift, to try and guide Stan back. Stan just grumbles angrily and curls weak fingers around the side of Ford’s neck. He presses his lips to the skin there, hot and salty and lined with dozens of faint, crisscrossing scars.

Stan tries desperately to fight Ford through guiding him back down beneath the covers, but he’s losing all sense of his body. He blinks slowly with one eye and tries to focus on Ford’s blurry face. In the final, slipping moments of his coherence, Stan tries to tell Ford he’s sorry. He isn’t really sure what for. The science fair project? Walking out for 8 years? Passing out after a glass and a half of whiskey? He isn’t sure what, but he garbles something thick and foreign to his own ears as he slips out of consciousness.

  
  


Ford waits a few minutes until all of Stan’s fruitless twitching dies down and it’s clear that he’s asleep. He’s surprised it took as long as it did for the drugs to kick in enough to knock Stan out, and he worries for a moment that he didn’t use enough. Combined with the whiskey, he tells himself, it should be fine. Stan should remain unconscious for a while. Hopefully.

Ford wastes no time in digging his shirt off of the floor and throwing it back on. He pulls on a sweatshirt over his shirt in preparation for the cold of the basement before turning to give Stan one last look over. Despite his mounting panic, he leans over the bed and kisses Stan’s temple. He tells himself that he’ll work fast enough, that everything will be fine and Stan will be waiting for him once he’s done. With a steadying breath, Ford pulls back and turns to leave.

He shoves his boots on on his way to the basement. As he passes the kitchen, he remembers the knife Stan was using and ends up doubling back to snatch the knife up and toss it out of the front door into the snow. Just in case.

The elevator jolts and shakes as it lowers. With his nerves fried, the bumpy descent makes his stomach lurch, but it’s exactly how the elevator has always run, so he’s assured that he’s not dreaming, if only for a moment.

The basement is as close to a hellscape as Ford has ever seen. While he’s grown somewhat used to the constant weight of being watched, the dozens of wet, fleshy eyes lining the walls and ceiling of the underground lab causes him to jerk back against the far wall of the elevator in fear. His breathing turns clipped and ragged as the eyes all watch him.

Ford is stuck somewhere between shutting down and wanting to cry. He wants to believe that this horrifying space he’s stepped into isn’t real, but he just doesn’t know anymore. 

The eyes begin to seep almost as if crying, but the liquid is viscous and cloudy. Ford digs his fingers into the fabric around his neck until his vision starts to dot. And somehow, that’s enough to get him to move, to walk stiffly out of the elevator to a short table along the far wall.

While he hasn’t been in the basement much since whatever had happened the last time he  _ thought _ he had been in the basement, everything he had gathered to make his encryption machine still sits along the table ready to be configured. He refamiliarizes himself with what he has and what he needs to scrounge around for before moving to gather the missing items.

It takes incredible willpower and a few minutes spent crouched in the elevator crying into his palms to be able to work around the weeping, grotesque eyes embedded in the walls. When he finally manages to ignore them completely, they suddenly disappear. He doesn’t notice until he tosses the tools he will need for building his machine onto the table alongside the components for the machine. When he turns, about to take out his journal from a locked desk drawer, the eyes just aren’t there and he slumps in relief.

His journal feels like a bomb in his hands. While he knows Bill can’t take over his body while he’s fully cognizant, knowing that the secrets to defeating Bill are in his hands out in the open fills him with an anxiety so tense and palpable he thinks he might choke. Somehow, he manages to push through the fear and gets to work building the machine, hoping not for the first time since descending into the basement, that he’ll pull this off and be able to crawl into bed with Stan at the end of it.

The first indication that something is not right is when Ford finishes the machine without a single appearance from Bill. He flips power on into the machine and lets out a breath of relief. The machine buzzes to life, screen glowing and tinging the lab green. Ford turns to grab his desk chair and slide it up to the table. He falls into the chair with a rising sense of excitement even as his body protests from physical and mental exhaustion.

The headpiece sits snug around his head as he moves it into place. He watches, half mystified, as the screen blinks and then text spills over it. He’s suddenly face-to-face with all of his thoughts. He grimaces and turns away, prodding the machine into starting the encryption processes. He doesn’t want to see his thoughts, doesn’t want to see the conflicting and deadly things that linger there. Least of all, he doesn’t want to acknowledge how easily accessible they are. So he turns away and waits like he’s always waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find my GF/stancest tumblr at mysterykeebs.tumblr.com


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